Everybody Comes To Harry's
by Belphegor
Summary: The Trickster is sitting on the top of a building, thinking of trying out his air-walker shoes for the first time, and the Flash stops by for a chat. DCAU Rogues, no slash.
1. A Meeting of Rogues

Author's note: First time I post the first part of a multi-chaptered story in a while, so here's me hoping it goes well :o) I hope you like this one. Seriously. Ever since I realised the huge soft spot for the Rogues I had since Flash and Substance – and since I gave the pub they go to in the episode a barkeep and a name – I wanted to play with them a bit more. So this story more or less revolves around that pub, which gets a cameo in each chapter. The title is a nod to _Casablanca_ – the original play the film is based upon is called _Everybody Comes To Rick's_, and there's a title drop in the beginning – with a little nod (different every time) to the film. But enough of that. I'm having a lot of fun writing this story, so I really hope you enjoy it :o)

_Disclaimer: every character here is a part of the DCAU, and as such belongs to DC Comics – and possibly Warner Bros. Since _Casablanca_ does, too, and I don't know whether the play is in the public domain, I'll just go with it and get on with the story._

_

* * *

_

**Everybody Comes To Harry's**

_A MEETING OF ROGUES_

They said the first impression was essential.

This made Mick Rory, who had just recently come up with the codename Heatwave, especially anxious to get it _right_. He wasn't afraid – well, no more than the healthy amount, because you didn't get into what he was about to get into without a minimum of self-preservation instinct – but he certainly was aware of the pressure he put on himself. For the moment, though, he was the only one to do so, because nobody else knew about Heatwave's existence.

Or Mick's, for that matter.

So he checked the fire system once more, adjusted his goggles on his eyes, and kicked open the double doors of the bank for effect.

"All right, everybody freeze –" _damn_. He'd have to work on his choice of words. "– This is a robbery! So put your hands …"

His voice trailed off when he caught sight of the startled looks on people's faces, customers and employees alike. They were staring at him with an odd mixture of shock and fear that made him stop in his tracks and frown. Something wasn't right.

Then he saw the giant icicle.

It wasn't an icicle. It was a man – a middle-aged bank watchman – encased in a big block of ice and dripping slowly. He had a gun in his hand and his blue, frozen features were a picture of shock.

Mick turned around slowly.

"Who the hell are _you_?"

Behind him – pointing a weird-looking gun thing at another employee who stood very still with a bag in her arms – was a guy in a blue parka, staring at him with narrowed eyes behind a pair of goofy glasses.

Mick had heard about this guy. Read about him a few times in the paper. 'Captain Cold', he apparently called himself. Mostly the articles were about bank robberies, successful or failed, and often how the Flash had thwarted them.

Come to think of it, those brief articles probably had something to do with the fact that he was now using his own attraction/repulsion toward fire as a gimmick to get easy money.

_Oh, crap. Just my luck._

Mick straightened up, his hand tensing on his fire gun. Just because it was his first bank job didn't mean he had to make it obvious.

"They call me Heatwave," he said, doing his best to sound menacing, self-assured and professional. This didn't appear to fool the 'Captain', if the way he quizzically raised an eyebrow was any way to judge.

"'They'? Who, 'they'? Never heard of you before."

"New guy in town," Mick retorted. "You will. Because I'm gonna walk out of there with my share of the money and –"

The guy took a few quick steps toward him and cut him off. "Hold it right there, pal. You _are_ gonna walk out of here, but don't even think you can take something out of a bank I'm already robbin'. That sort of thing ain't done."

Okay. Time for some rep-building attitude.

Mick's finger brushed against the trigger of his flamethrower. Sparks flew. He welcomed like a friend the familiar warmth on the part of his face that the mask wasn't covering.

"Try me."

He should have thought of it – hell, that Cold guy should have thought of it, if he was so damn smart. He should have known that this wasn't some Old West movie where the stand-off can last for excruciating long minutes and time isn't really a problem. Or rather, if it was indeed a western, it wasn't the Sergio Leone kind, where the main characters were more or less bad guys.

Nope. John Wayne had to waltz in and save the day.

Of course, John Wayne was a tall, lean kid in flashy red pyjamas who came barging after when one of the employees had pressed the silent alarm button, and when he saw the stand-off in front of him went all round-eyed and said, grinning widely, "Wow, what do you know – hot and cold – what were the odds?"

… But the principle of the thing was the same.

Both Mick and Cold turned their guns on him at the same time, but the Flash was already gone this way and that, the big grin never leaving his face as he zipped around, thawing out the frozen watchman and easily dodging both fire and ice.

"_Hey –_"

Mick whirled round, but too late. Something bright and gleaming shot his way, and he barely had time to register it had come from Cold's weapon as the Flash knocked it out of his hands.

"Hey, Cold, if I knew you'd bring a friend, I'd have brought a beer!"

Oddly enough, Mick's last conscious thought before blacking out was, _Is that kid even old enough to know what beer tastes like?_

Then the cold and the dark took over and the world ceased to exist.

* * *

A flame flickered in the darkness. Mick clung to it on his way to consciousness.

He slowly became aware that he was lying on his back on a cold, hard surface, under a thick woollen blanket, and his muscles ached like they never had before. His mask was gone, his face – and identity – laid bare. The sounds and smells that were breaking in were completely unfamiliar, and there was a chill in the air that made him shiver.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, he saw that the flickering yellowish light was not not actually a flame, but a light bulb hanging from a bare concrete ceiling. Big disappointment.

"You're awake."

It wasn't a question so much as a statement. The voice was low, flat, and it made Mick wonder where he had heard it before.

The answer came when he blinked through the bright spots scattered across his view and caught a glimpse of blue. It also told him where he was, namely lying on one of two benches in a cell in the Central City Police Headquarters. Captain Cold was staring at the opposite wall from where he sat more or less comfortably on the other bench. Cops came and went across the room on the other side of the bars, completely ignoring them.

It was hard to decide which was worse.

Mick tried to sit up groggily, still blinking. "Wha' happened?"

With the hood of his parka down and without his glasses, Cold looked more like a regular Joe than the weird Eskimo on the few photos on _Picture News_. The man sitting in front of him was maybe a couple of years older than Mick, with sharp features and a short stock of tousled brown hair. His brown eyes were as cold as anything when he glanced at Mick.

"What d'you think? The Flash showed up, kicked our asses and hauled the both of us in here."

The spots were almost gone now, and the blanket was warm enough, but Mick's muscles were still quivering from the aftershock.

"I mean, what the hell happened to me?"

Cold went back to staring at the wall, but he had the grace to sound gruffly apologetic.

"My cold gun misfired when he knocked it. You got in the way." He shot Mick another, less cold glance. "Sorry."

Mick had always had a weird relationship to fire, but there was nothing he straightforwardly _hated_ more in the world than cold, ice and everything related. Funny what having been locked up in a walk-in freezer as a kid could do to you.

No wonder his hands were still shaking like mad.

The guy _had_ apologised, though, and something told Mick that it wasn't the kind of thing that happened often.

He sat up and brought his knees to his chest, wrapping the blanket around himself and curling into the tightest ball he could to regain a bit of warmth.

"So …" he finally ventured when his voice was steady enough, "you didn't kill that guy, back there?"

Cold shrugged. "'Course not. I'm not some kinda serial killer, and I'm not dumb either. You kill someone, you get a whole lot of heat. And I'm not too fond of that."

_Heh. Figures._

"But the dude was in a giant icicle! You're gonna tell me that he wasn't hurt?"

"Not much more than you." A smirk made its way across his face. "Suspended animation – that's how the cold gun works. It doesn't _ice_ people if I don't set it to. Once they've thawed out, all they need is a bit of warming-up and they're fine."

"Fine – yeah, right," muttered Mick, fully aware that the room temperature wasn't _that_ low but still hugging his knees and shivering. "You're nuts."

The smirk became a grin. "Because setting stuff or people on fire is so much healthier."

The point sank in, and Mick glared at his cell mate.

"I don't get off on it! I'm not some pyromaniac nutjob." That wasn't a hundred per cent true, but Mick drew the line at hurting innocent people, so he had decided that Heatwave wouldn't do that, either.

Captain Cold threw him a pointed look. "Me neither. It's a _job_. Okay, so I like my job, but the gun's just a work tool."

Mick nodded. It wasn't often that he came across somebody who understood this frame of mind and didn't run off to call the men in white. At least the Flash had handed the two of them to the cops. If he had pulled this stunt in Gotham, Batman would have dragged both their asses to Arkham Asylum … and he'd heard about the people in there. The loonies and the serial killers and the ones who tortured people and did _things_ to little kids for kicks – not to mention the guys who actually _chose_ to work there. Just thinking about it gave him the creeps.

The shivering was gradually dying down. About time. That blanket was thick and warm, but it was also scratchy and smelled a bit funny.

As Mick swung his legs down the bench and loosened the blanket around him, Cold turned sharply and faced him directly, the shadow of a grin playing across his features.

"Well, can't say this wasn't fun, but I'm off. You know – things to do, people to see. Do you wanna come?"

Mick blinked, but this time it wasn't to clear his vision.

"Oh, yeah," he ended up saying sarcastically, "why don't we just take a hostage, get the keys, our weapons and the hell outta here?"

The guy grinned. His left eye-tooth had a dent in it.

"Funny you should say that."

He took out his left glove – Mick noted with no small amount of surprise the narrow band on his ring finger – and rummaged a bit before finally picking up a small contraption that looked like a miniature gun.

"You live the life, you play by the rules. And one of the rules is … always have something up your sleeve."

"Does it mean I have to take it literally? That suit's kinda tight around the arms."

The smug grin slipped a bit, and Cold shot him a deadpan look. "Not necessarily." He pocketed his weapon and leaned against the wall, his eyes on the few cops behind the bars, especially the one who slouched on his chair behind a desk nearby. "And now … We attract their attention. Shouldn't be too difficult."

Mick inwardly sprang to attention. The guy sure looked like he loved to hear himself talk, but there was something about him, like a sharp, gruff sort of competence that made you want to listen.

"So you think you can just walk into a bank job of mine and screw up something I've been working on for days? Well, think again, you little –"

_Wha – oh. _That_ kind of attention_. Mick tensed and held the glare.

"Yeah, because you were doing so fine before I came in. I mean, _one_ bag of cash? How lame is that?"

"Ha! That's exactly the kind of mistake every wet-behind-the-ears wannabe robber makes. Never take more than you can carry with one arm!"

"Christ, do you even hear yourself speak? Hate to break it to you, pal, but you're a criminal! You don't need rules – you _break_ 'em! And you and your rules can go to hell!"

At some point during this little exchange, both Mick and Cold had stood up and were now glaring fiercely at each other. From the corner of his eye, Mick saw the desk cop scramble to his feet and make his way to the cell.

Then Cold dropped his voice to a whisper.

"Then you won't last … five … _minutes_ … in this town."

Mick punched him in the face.

Something cracked, blood spurt. Cold hit the bars hard and went down.

The next second pain exploded in his knuckles and spread in his hand, wrist and arm like fire, and Mick grit his teeth against the groan that almost escaped his lips, cursing himself. He hadn't meant to hit the guy as hard as that. On the other hand, though, maybe he could get that little cold gun and …

The cop fumbled with the keys, his billy club steady in his right hand, and opened the door with a little difficulty – Cold's unmoving body was in the way. Mick repressed the small spark of guilt that flared up in his mind in order to focus on the situation. That cop was between him and the cold gun, and between him and the way out as well. Things didn't look so good.

"What's wrong with you?" snapped the cop. "Getting restless? Don't wanna share? You want a nice cosy cell just for you, is that it?"

"Well," Mick drawled, trying not to sneak a glance at the blue parka on the floor, "now that you mention it, yeah, that'd be nice. The guy was a jerk and your blanket stinks as bad as the room service does."

The cop's face contorted with anger and he took a couple of steps toward Mick. Before he could take a third, however, Captain Cold was on his feet, pressing his weapon against his neck.

"Before you ask, yes, this is a cold gun, yes, you're a bunch of idiots for not thinking I would have something like that, and yes, I can and I _will_ freeze your throat until you can't breathe anymore if you or your pals try anything funny. Now, you're gonna go with us get our weapons back. Agreed?"

His voice came out all nasal and funny and blood was pouring from his nose, but judging by his sudden, absolute stillness, the cop understood that he was Not Kidding.

"Y–yeah," he stammered.

It never should have worked. _Never_. In a million years.

But – and Mick had to stop himself from thinking about it every single step of the way, because it was like aerial walking in the sense that the slightest rational thought could break off the charm and make you fall down and hit the ground, _hard_ – it _did_.

They got out through a back door. There was always a back door.

This made Mick wonder whether _Arkham_ had a back door.

And they ran.

When they were far enough, they stopped in a dark alley of the old city to get their breath back. Mick's legs wobbled, his chest burned, and his fire suit had never felt this heavy before.

"Well," he panted, "for a first job that … that w–was certainly … interesting."

Cold turned to him, taking off his glasses – they'd both swiped back their masks along with their respective weapons – to wipe the sweat off his face.

"Thought you were a … a newbie. Didn't f–figure y … you for a first-timer. _Ow_." He winced, fished a handkerchief from a pocket in his belt and gingerly wiped off most of the remaining blood. "The punch was a nice touch, by the way, they really bought into it." Oddly enough, he gave a slight grin, the kind that looked more like a smirk and that Mick was beginning to think that it was particular to him. "Kinda think you broke my nose, though."

Mick gave a crooked smile of his own and extended his hand. "Guess that makes us even, then. I'm Mick Rory."

Cold took the offered hand and shook it. "Len Snart."

Mick tilted his head slightly to the side. "That's short for Leonard, right?"

Len Snart's glare could have frozen at least a few acres of Hell. "Call me Len."

It sounded much more like an order than a friendly invitation, but Mick was ready to let that pass. Failing a bank robbery, getting turned into an icicle and escaping from Police HQ – yeah, that had been good fun (and Mick's relative lack of sarcasm surprised him – some of it had genuinely _been_ fun) but now that the adrenaline was wearing off, all he needed was a warm place to crash and a good beer. Too bad his fridge was empty.

"So, 'Heatwave' … What do you say we grab a beer?"

Mick turned to Len in genuine surprise.

"What?"

Len shrugged. "We're near Harry's. He keeps good stuff and he doesn't mind who's buying it as long as nobody starts any nasty business in his pub."

Mick sneaked a glance in the nearby larger street and turned back to Len, narrowing his eyes. "Look, I _know_ this neighbourhood. Never heard of a place called Harry's."

"Then it was high time you did. Come on."

Len put his glasses back on, and Mick tugged on his cowl to smooth the creases, still slightly wary but curious.

When they were both standing near the entrance, he understood why he had never heard of the pub. It wasn't the sort you found, especially without meaning to. That kind of place found _you_.

The beer _was_ good. The atmosphere was quiet, but welcoming in its own peculiar way, and Mick found himself leaning comfortably against the back of the seat as he took small gulps from his pint to make it last longer.

The waitress had provided Len with an ice pack that was now gingerly balancing on his nose.

"You don't have it as good in Keystone," Mick reflected, more to himself than to the guy across the table. "If I'd known when I was still working for Kowalski and his bunch of thugs, I'd have gone rogue sooner."

One brown eye peered at him from under the ice pack.

"We don't do things Kowalski's way around here."

"Got that. You know, Len, I think this is the beginning –"

The crooked smirk returned.

"Gonna be able to finish that sentence with a straight face?"

"– Of a beautiful friendship. See? I may not be 'Captain _Cold_', but that doesn't mean I don't get to be cool." Mick took another gulp and grinned. "'Sides, I knew you'd get it. You look old school enough to."

"Yeah. Old school."

"Best school there is."

"Hell yeah."

Silence settled for a little while, and it was surprisingly companionable. When Mick had finished his beer, he leaned forward and saw in a low voice, "You know that little bank near the airport? Sanders'?"

A gleam lit up in Len's eyes as he put the ice pack away and looked at Mick.

"You got my attention."

And Mick explained his idea.

There was something there, Mick mused as he and Len filled in the blanks of the plan. He had no idea what it was. It wasn't friendship, it wasn't even trust, _per se_ – just a shaky kind of partnership – but he'd be damned if it wasn't the start of something interesting.

Definitely something to look forward to, anyway.

* * *

We do get to see Heatwave – he's part of Grodd's Legion of Doom, and is one of the twelve who survive Alive! and take part of the final battle in Destroyer. (By the way, in the comics they spell his moniker in two words, but in one word in the DCAU wiki, so I went with them since this _is _the DCAU.) Since we don't know that much about the Flash's early days (and his foes') I figured it would be fun to fill the blanks by partnering the polar opposites as the premise for the Rogues :o)

Now, I haven't finished writing the second chapter (but I _have_ written the third and fourth!), so contrary to the snapshots, I don't know when I'll be posting it. I'll do my best to finish it soon :o]

Till then … hope you liked this one :D

Next up: _It had to be simpler in Gotham, Captain Cold mused. No villain there would ever think of bluntly asking the resident "hero" what was wrong when something clearly was. But the Flash was no Batman. Thankfully._


	2. Status Quo

Author's notes: two months already! Sorry for the wait (if anyone's still reading :P), but both my beta and I had a lot on our plate. But hey, that's Real Life for ya :o) So this chapter happens a couple of months after the first one, so it's still quite early in everybody's career. Enjoy!

___Disclaimer: With a big major company like DC, is it truly necessary for me to say that I don't own those characters? … Apparently it is, so I don't own 'em. At all :o]_

* * *

**Everybody Comes To Harry's**

_STATUS QUO_

Some cities are said to be always awake, eyes and windows wide open in the dark. Some even boast of really coming alive only at night.

Fortunately for Len Snart – aka Captain Cold, since he was currently on the job – in Central City that was not really the case. Not in this part of town anyway.

This part of town was mostly shops, stores and apartments, and it slept at night. Soundly. Which meant that any burglar who was professional enough to cut the alarms and keep the general noises down to a minimum had a chance to get away with it.

And Len knew exactly where the alarms were. He had found it paid to do a minimum of pre-emptive homework before a job.

As he fished around in his belt for his miniature cold gun – a small device, not quite what you'd call 'impressive', but it was quite precise and its accuracy was uncanny – and crouched in front of the back door of the jewellery store, he couldn't help wondering whether he should have kept Heatwave on the loop or not. After all, the couple of heists they'd pulled together – if you didn't count the first time they had come face to face, which had resulted in a failed bank robbery and their having to escape the Central City Police HQ together – had been successful enough. Working as a duo definitely had its perks. Knowing your partner was watching your back as you were watching his had certainly made some things easier.

But try as he may, Len could not see what asset Mick could have brought to this particular job. Besides, flames in a courtyard next to a small jewellery at three in the morning were not exactly inconspicuous.

When he had frozen the lock at exactly the right temperature, Len put his small weapon back in its belt compartment and took out a lock pick instead. The inside of the keyhole crumbled, leaving the outside looking very much intact and perfectly innocent to hypothetical passers-by. It had worked before, and Len counted on it to work yet another time.

The first thing he did before entering was poke his cold gun – the usual one – inside and freeze the cameras and the alarm. The second thing was check for another alarm that wouldn't be on the blueprints. And then, finally, he entered and closed the door behind him, very much satisfied with the night so far.

Of course, with hindsight, he should have known better. Even without the paranoid superstition that was more or less came with the job description ("_Don't ever say 'Nothing can go wrong now', because something invariably _will_ if you do_"), Len prided himself on keeping on his toes at all times – even when the guy in the red pyjamas making a surprise appearance was highly improbable.

At least he heard him coming this time, though. Usually the Flash went so fast that it was really _easy_ to miss the whooshing sound he made as he ran, but the neighbourhood was completely quiet and he made a point of not making any unnecessary noise anyway.

On the off chance that the Flash might spot the damaged lock, Len dropped to the floor, flattened himself against the wall and waited, cold gun at the ready.

The familiar sound rushed past the door and went away. Len did not move an inch.

It came back. The door opened slowly.

Len remained as perfectly still as he could, his finger on the trigger of his gun, trying to squint in the darkness at the metal lightning bolts that reflected what little light there was. And actively trying to ignore the slight thrill that came from the absolute uncertainty of who was the hunter, and who was the hunted. It got him every time, even if he stubbornly refused to acknowledge it. He was _not_ doing this for the _fun_, dammit.

From his place on the ground, he heard a very slight rustling sound and a soft footfall, and surprisingly, it was all he heard. He had expected at least a tentative joke by now about something or other – it was part of what made the Flash so infuriating. The guy was always smiling. Oh, he took his 'job' or 'mission' or whatever he called it seriously enough, but somehow, that unshakable cheerful attitude never failed to rub Len the wrong way, and he knew he was not the only one.

But tonight, there was only silence. So far.

Because the Flash put his hand just above the keyhole, and raised his head sharply.

_Well. It was nice while it lasted._

Len fired.

And was astonished to see that the Flash had not dodged in the nick of time as he usually did – instead, he half-fell to the ground, his legs frozen in place. He recovered quickly enough, however, because he caught up with Len before he was even out of the courtyard he had come in through.

In the half-second he saw the guy's face before his fist took all the room, he sensed something was off. It was absolutely no excuse for the complete newbie mistake he made in not firing the gun instantly, but in that half-second, he only had time to register something was _wrong_.

Then pain exploded in his jaw at the same time that his feet left the ground with the force of the impact and he landed hard on his back. Spots danced in front of his eyes as he lay there, gasping for breath and mechanically searching for his miniature cold gun, the real one lying uselessly a few feet away.

The face that swam into focus just above him confirmed the odd impression. There was no trace of the usual humour, no grin, nothing. Len thought for about a second and a half, then fired his small cold gun straight into the Flash's right Achilles tendon.

The guy let out a short, inarticulate cry and collapsed as heavily as any normal human being.

Len gave himself the luxury of another thirty seconds to get his breath back properly, and if he was still wheezing a little bit when he got to his feet, at least the bright spots were mostly gone.

When he retrieved his cold gun from the ground, he looked into the Flash's eyes – or where they were supposed to be, behind those lenses of his mask – and was more startled than he cared to admit to see the anger on his face, underlined with something like hurt which Len suspected had little to do with his damaged ankle.

"Happy now?" he said, his voice sharp and cold – and it sounded so wrong – even at its mocking best, the Flash's voice never lacked for warmth. Len tilted his head to the side.

"What do you think?"

The Flash bit his lip, and something fleeting passed on his face that made him look ever so briefly like a ten-year-old boy. Len's hand relaxed on his gun for a second in spite of himself. Not for the first time, he wondered how old he really was.

"I think today's already the crappiest day ever, so why not top it all with the crappiest night ever?" He winced when he tried to put some weight on his ankle. "Doesn't matter, anyway."

Curiosity. It was only a slight, casual curiosity that made Len lower his gun and take a look – a real look – at the kid. Nothing more. It was not worry. He did _not_ worry. And certainly not about a guy who kept running after him, putting him in jail and generally prancing around in a bright red costume, for God's sake.

It didn't help. The curiosity and the … thing that was beginning to churn deep down in his stomach that was definitely _not there_ did not go away. Rather the opposite, in fact.

"What's wrong?" he asked, keeping his voice rough but low. The Flash raised his head, incredulity and plain mistrust spelled in big bold capital letters on his face.

"You've gotta be kidding me!" he retorted, anger rearing its head and gradually replacing the disbelief. "It's not enough that you're gonna turn me into a popsicle, you're gonna mess with my head first?"

"I'm not 'messing with your head', I'm just trying to figure out why you looked like you wanted to kill me a moment ago."

"You're a bad guy. I catch bad guys."

Okay, that was it. He not only looked like a kid – especially with the ridiculous pout-like expression that his face took for a second – he really sounded like one. Except that he didn't for long. Something quickly replaced the almost pout, something grim and sad and lost and –

_Ah, crap._

Len crossed his arms across his chest and tried his damnedest to look and sound coldly sarcastic.

"'Bad guys', yeah. You just don't usually look so murderous when you do, that's all."

He had expected a retort – some smart-ass quip – some cheesy joke. Instead, the Flash looked down, the expression on his face difficult to decipher, especially in the lack of light.

And he certainly had not expected the question, asked in a low, tired sort of voice, "D'you have family?"

It almost threw him for a loop.

Almost.

"Yes," he said, too puzzled to straightforwardly avoid the question. "Why?"

The Flash didn't answer, keeping his head downcast.

"Nothing. It's been a … just … nothing."

_Right_. Len rolled his eyes, trying to put the sudden weariness that weighed on his shoulders down to the ridiculous time of the night. By any account he should already have ran back into the jewellers, filled a small bag with priceless items, and by now he should be on his way home, trying not to wake the wife when he got there. But no. He was still staring down at his enemy, trying to get him to spill the beans about what was making him act that way, and getting increasingly cold and tired. No wonder the voice of reason in the back of his head kept calling him a stupid idiot for not finishing him off and splitting already.

The thing is, he couldn't do that. Not really.

After all, the Flash's annoying cheerful grin wasn't just a gimmick. It was a trademark, something that distinguished him from the other capes he had heard about. In Metropolis they had a boy scout who saved everybody; in Gotham City they had a bogeyman who scared everybody. Despite his cocky (bordering on arrogant) attitude, the Flash didn't preach for the holier-than-thou choir, and he certainly didn't set out to frighten everyone.

Actually, what usually happened most of the time was that the guys were often so busy taking him for a goofball and a joke that when they realised he meant business, it was already too late.

_I bet he knows that all too well, too._

Yes, the Flash was dangerous. He was also quite focused on delivering those he caught to the police with minimum damage.

Without that focus, he became a liability, and Len wasn't exactly keen on seeing him collide at the speed of sound with some poor unfortunate bastard because he'd lost control. Especially if the poor unfortunate bastard in question was him. The guy was rumoured to be faster than _Superman_, after all – and he probably was smart enough to know how ugly things could turn if he didn't have absolute control over his power.

It was _not_ because it wouldn't be fair to shoot a man while he was down that Len hesitated. And it was definitely not because it wouldn't be half as fun.

So, clinging to his logic, he shook his head, holstered his cold gun resignedly and sat down besides the Flash, looking straight at the walls in front of him.

"I got a sister," he said after a while. "But we don't talk much." _Too different_.

That was all he needed to know.

The Flash nodded mutely. It was unnerving to see the guy who usually couldn't seem to be able to stop talking doing such a dead-on clam impersonation.

"Then there's the wife, of course."

This got the guy's attention. His head snapped up and he stared at Len with a suddenly much more normal look on his face.

"You're married?" It was hard to tell for sure whether he meant the emphasis on 'you' or 'married'.

"Yeah."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

They lapsed into silence again, the only sounds around provided by a slight wind and a nearby dripping from a drainpipe from an earlier rain. The silence was not much less awkward for it. This was getting ridiculous.

Still, Len hesitated for a few seconds more, the voice of reason at the back of his head yelling all sorts of colourful expletives about his current level of intelligence and his choice of priorities.

Then he made up his mind.

He got back on his feet and whipped his gun out.

The Flash tensed, but Len held up a hand defensively.

"Relax. I'm not gonna ice ya."

"Oh yeah?" Incredulity was back full force.

"Yeah. Let's say I'm … off the clock."

"Look, that might work for Ralph and Sam, but people like me or you don't punch clocks. I mean, how do I know you're _not_ gonna ice me?"

"Because I won't."

"'Course you'd say that," the Flash retorted, mistrust and a no small hint of sarcasm creeping back into his voice.

Len rolled his eyes again. "Actually, I wouldn't. The way I see it, if you're gonna shoot, shoot, don't talk."

"Rip-off."

"Can't beat the classics. Now don't move. If that's even _possible_ for you to do that, I mean."

There still was an odd undercurrent of mixed-up emotions – a lot of them unrelated to the current situation – in the Flash's glare, but he relaxed ever so slightly and held still. As though he actually trusted one of his most regular antagonists and a notorious villain to keep his word and not take a golden opportunity to off him just like that. Len suppressed a sigh.

_I _know _I'm going to regret this_.

Then he shrugged it off, changed the right settings on his cold gun, pointed it at his enemy's ankle, and – still calling himself every kind of idiot under the sun – fired.

The Flash gingerly moved his foot, looking bemused.

"You reversed the – wow. That's a new feature."

"After that stunt with Heatwave at the bank, I figured I needed something in case I accidentally froze someone I actually work with." To tell the truth, Len wasn't half proud of this recent finding. It had taken a _lot_ of tinkering. Plus, it could prove useful.

He put the gun back into his holster again as the Flash turned to him, apparently trying to look sly and cold. It didn't work – thankfully. That meant he wasn't so far gone yet.

"How do you know I'm not gonna haul your butt to the cops now for breaking into that store?"

Len was expecting this. He crossed his arms and stared at the guy straight in the eye. Or where his eyes should be, anyway.

"Because something's wrong with you. I don't know what, I don't necessarily _care_, but I got a feeling it's going to make life very difficult for all of us. And we don't need that." He paused, and gave a small smirk. "If I wanted some dark and scary urban legend to run after me, I'd have moved to Gotham by now."

Now that he was standing up, the dim light of the streetlamps a few feet away caught the Flash's face better, revealing a look halfway between baffled and amused. It was the most normal he'd looked since he turned up, but it still didn't come close to his usual annoyingly buoyant disposition.

"'Dark and scary'? Really?"

"Getting there."

"Oh."

Even with some exaggeration to prod him along the way, the kid really couldn't take a hint if it stared him in the face and waved. He was going to have to say it. _Dammit. Why'd have to be _me_, of all people_. _It's not like I even like the guy_.

Nevertheless, he kept his face as seriously deadpan he could, and said, "So. You need to talk."

The Flash stared at him as though he'd grown another head. Then incredulity turned to stubbornness as he clammed up altogether.

"Not to you."

_Oh, for God's sake._

"Look," Len snapped coldly, "I might be wrong, but I reckon that if you had anyone else you could talk to right now, you'd be there instead of lurking around jewellery stores at three in the morning."

Ouch. Apparently he'd hit a nerve. The Flash's shoulders sagged a little bit, his gaze dropped, and the look on his face changed to one akin to a kicked puppy. He must really be wretched to let himself show weakness like that to one of his worst enemies.

Len suddenly felt very tired. And old. Which was absurd – he was not that old. There was just something about this … kid that made him feel that way. It was much simpler when he acted like the cocky super-fast vigilante he usually set out to be, and not like the kid he admittedly was.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and went on in a more subdued tone, "Ah, hell. Come on."

None of them said a word till Len stopped in front of the back door to Harry's and retrieved the spare key from where he knew it would be. This elicited a low-key comment from the Flash.

"Hey, isn't that the place where you guys like to hang out?"

Len sharply turned his head toward him. "What do you know about that place?"

The Flash shrugged noncommittally. "Only that it's where criminals go when they're not committing crimes. Which is fine by me, I mean – I'd rather have you lot in here all the time rather than robbing banks."

Len _stared_ at him. Then he turned back to the door and opened it, shaking his head.

_Things must actually be simpler in Gotham. Crazier, sure, and more dangerous, but simpler._

Despite knowing where the 'emergency key' was hidden, Len had never set foot in Harry's when it was closed before. The pub was dark and silent, and he was careful to keep it that way – the barkeep and owner lived just upstairs, and it wouldn't do any good to wake him. 'Never piss off the barkeep' was one of these unspoken rules that everyone, from petty thieves to seasoned burglars, seemed to obey implicitly. Len didn't know whether 'cranky' counted as 'pissed off', but he wasn't sure he wanted to chance it.

"What kind of pub owner keeps the key for all to find?" the Flash asked in a low voice as Len closed the door behind them.

"The kind of owner who doesn't want people to break into his pub," Len replied in the same tone. "It's not like anyone would dare to rob him, anyway."

"Why? Nobody ever tried?"

"Oh, yes. Happens sometimes. Last time was … two years ago, I guess." The fond memory made Len smile what he perfectly knew was one nasty-looking smirk. "I think the last anyone heard about the poor bastard, he was running toward the state border."

"To Kansas?"

"To _Iowa_."

Judging by the expression on his face, the Flash was suitably impressed.

Len fished some small change from his pockets and got himself a draft beer while Flash looked on interestedly.

"Good idea, I'll have one of those too."

"Right." Len looked at him in the eye and smirked. "Care to show some ID?"

Flash's jaw went slack.

"What? You're not serious!"

"Like hell I'm not. You don't look old enough to vote, let alone to get a beer."

"Oh, come on! You rob banks – you do bad stuff all the time – and you won't let me have a beer? … What kind of villain are you?"

Len's smirk broadened. "The kind that's starting to enjoy the situation." He grabbed a Coke and half-turned to the Flash. "Got any money?"

The guy put his chin on his hand, looking peeved, while he dropped some coins on the bar. Len couldn't help but stare, a little bit perplexed.

"Where did you – never mind, I really don't want to know." His hunch had been correct – the Flash may be a far cry from an actual boy scout, but he was too much of a goody-two-shoes to break the 'no alcohol for underage kids' rule.

Which meant he _was_ underage. That hunch had been correct, too.

"So. You asked about family."

The Flash's face closed off abruptly. He gripped his Coke and stared down at the bar.

"'S a private thing."

Len had never been much good at these kinds of conversations, so he didn't say anything and waited for the Flash to get fed up with the silence.

Sure enough, it didn't last that long. The guy squirmed a bit, his expression still as carefully guarded as he could.

"It's my aunt, she's, uh … she had a heart attack today. And it was … it's _bad_."

He took a half-hearted sip from his Coke bottle, resolutely staring in front of him.

"She's my only aunt."

Silence. Then another sip.

"My mum's nice, she's – she's my mum, but we don't … It's complicated. With my aunt and uncle, it's – not."

Len drank a bit from his beer, still waiting, and carefully not letting his mind wander over his own personal memories. He really didn't need to go there. The past was past, no use in dwelling on it.

_Family_. What _wasn't_ complicated about family?

"I know you only get one mum, and I'm … But my aunt and uncle, they – just accept the way I am. They don't try to guilt-trip me into doing or not doing stuff. They're not disappointed because I got an F in Literature class, and they don't shake their heads and say I'm hopeless. They don't snap at me because I laugh too loud."

The kid – it was really easy not to see him as a kid, usually, but right now it was damn difficult to see him as anything but, and for all that he prided himself on being a cold-hearted bastard when needs be, Len had always hated seeing a kid having it tough – was slowly letting his stiff upper lip mask slip, and it was becoming obvious. His jaw was clenched in a certain way that felt familiar somehow to Len – as though he'd seen it before.

When it dawned on him that it reminded him of his little sister when she was on the verge of tears but was too damn stubborn to cry, he gripped the handle of his beer mug so hard his knuckles hurt. It took a lot of effort to push that thought away.

The Flash took another gulp from his glass. "Thing is …" That kid was stubborn too, in his own right. His lip barely wobbled. "Sometimes, they … Their place, it's home, y'know? 'Specially since Dad split. And …"

He turned to Len, who realised with an inward start that he _could_, in fact, see a pair of eyes under that mask. He was startled by the expression in them – frank, candid distress, with a total absence of mistrust, sarcasm and anything that could have grounded him in normality. Heroes – or villains – should never appear this vulnerable, this … this human. Especially to one another. It threw out the board and the rules of the game, and it was almost as bad as getting personal.

Len didn't like getting personal. Personal business meant feelings, and feelings meant complications.

_Off the clock_, he reminded himself firmly, returning his gaze on his beer mug. _And it's an __investment, anyway. A gambit. You're just making sure the rules stay the same in the long run._

"And … I know it's stupid, but … _I_ risk my life every once in a while – mostly 'cause you guys give me a run for my money, but there's other stuff sometimes – and I know I _can_ take these risks … I mean, nobody else can do the stuff I do, so I figured I could, y'know, make a difference … But aunt Ir – my aunt, she's – she didn't choose. She doesn't do the kinds of stuff that'd put her in danger – she's always careful with her health, she doesn't smoke, and I just … I guess I thought she'd always _be_ there. At her work, at home, making pie and drinking iced tea and arguing with the neighbours and letting me eat cookie dough and …"

The kid sniffed, shaking imperceptibly, but to Len's relief he went on, with only the slightest quiver in his voice.

"… I can't believe I took her and my uncle for granted. The single two greatest folks on Earth, and I took 'em for granted. And now she's … She still hasn't woken up and for all I know she might be d …"

This time Len deliberately did _not_ look at him. He was a little too certain of what he might see if he did.

Time did not stop, the Earth did not grind to a halt as he almost expected it to.

It didn't last long. About twenty seconds later, when he risked a glance again, the kid's face still looked grim and pinched, but his cheeks were dry. Thankfully.

"Sorry," he mumbled, rubbing his nose a bit and his gaze not meeting Len's. "Guess I just needed to tell someone. I know it's kinda ridiculous."

_Not _that_ ridiculous,_ Len thought, but kept his mouth shut. This was _not_ some average unhappy kid sitting there. This was an enemy, who would go back to hauling his tail to Central City Police HQ the second the sun came up – or rather, the second he caught him next time. It was important that they both remembered that.

"It's your family. You love 'em or hate 'em; there's no in-between."

"That's a kinda black-and-white way to put it."

Len almost snorted into his beer. "Yeah, I guess so. Not untrue, though. Everything else is just shades of grey."

"Everything but love?"

"_And_ hate."

The Flash gave a smile. Not a smirk, not his usual grin; just a smile, low-key but warmer and more normal than he had looked since Len had caught a glimpse of him in the jewellery store.

The worst part was, it looked genuine.

"Didn't know you were sentimental."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Len muttered, suddenly wondering exactly what time in the night it was and whether he could blame it for feeling this tired. He drained the rest of his beer in one gulp and turned to the Flash, who was still fidgeting with his bottle. "So. Better now?"

"No. Yes. No. Well – it's complicated."

_Tell me about it_. Actually, Len corrected himself quickly, he just had.

"You should try spilling your guts to someone who actually _cares_, for a change," he pointed out in his best indifferent voice. "You know, like your mother, or that uncle of yours. Maybe he could use a bit of talk. Tell him you don't actually take him for granted, kinda thing."

The Flash squinted into his Coke.

"He's already scared to death and pretty depressed. I don't want to add my own stuff to that."

"Then you're a bigger idiot than you look."

"_Hey!_"

"I said 'look'. Didn't say you _were_ an idiot."

"Thanks. … I think."

"Most of the time."

"It's always nice to see that your qualities are appreciated."

This time, the smile had a little bit of smirk going on. This, plus the return of light-hearted banter on the Flash's part, meant that the intermission would soon be over, and the return to status quo was imminent. But Len wanted to finish his point. He didn't like to leave things hanging.

"What I mean is, if this guy's half as great as you make him sound, he probably won't mind you _adding_ stuff. 'Sides, like as not, it'll probably help."

"You mean, more than laying private stuff on my nemesis?"

"Precisely." Len blinked and raised an eyebrow. "'Nemesis'?"

"Well, yeah. Sorta."

He thought about it for a few seconds.

"Isn't a nemesis supposed to throw a monkey wrench in the works no matter what you try to do, be the thorn in your side, or something?"

The Flash looked a bit puzzled.

"I suppose, yeah."

"I'm not your nemesis. _You_'re my damn nemesis."

"Tomaytoes, tomahtoes, 'Captain'." The Flash's smirk still lacked its usual bite, but there was no trace of sarcasm in his voice when he glanced at Len from the corner of his eyepiece and said, "Thanks."

Len shrugged. "Don't mention it." He _really_ meant that.

The Flash drank up the rest of his Coke and looked a bit sheepish when he caught a glimpse of the clock.

"I'd better go, I got class in – _urgh_ – three hours and a half. Unless –" he shot Len a quick sideways look "– you're planning to return to that jewellery store, 'cause in that case I'd have to drag you off to CCPD."

He did have the grace to sound like this wasn't something he was looking forward to. Len leaned back on his stool, shaking off the thought of removing his glasses to rub his temples. He probably should have gotten himself a coffee rather than a beer.

"Actually, I'm not," he said after a few seconds' thinking. "No use now, anyway – the sun'll be up in an hour or two. Besides, someone might have heard our little scuffle back there and called the cops for all I know." He shrugged. "I'll just stop by some other time."

"I'll just stop _you_ some other time, then," the Flash said good-naturedly enough, pushing back his stool.

Len _knew_ he should have retorted something sarcastic. Right now, though, he let the matter drop, feeling a little too tired for snark.

The Flash gave him a nod before he zipped out with the usual whooshing sound, but as he locked the door of the pub and hid the key, Len had a feeling that he hadn't gone very far. Sure, the kid had sounded trusting back there, bordering on naïve, but he wasn't stupid. He had hardly told Len anything that could have been used to trace his secret identity, not a single first name, even as he got dangerously close to tears before he stopped talking altogether.

He might have trusted Len when he had said he wouldn't freeze him. That didn't mean he wouldn't make sure that he didn't go back to the store. Somehow, it actually was good to know that the guy still considered him dangerous enough to keep a eye on him.

The impression of being watched vanished just as he turned round the corner of his street. Whether it was intentional or not wasn't something he was keen to look into right now.

The house was completely dark and silent when he closed the door behind him, moving with the universal would-be stealth of married men everywhere who came home a little too late for their wives' liking.

Janet was apparently sound asleep, and made no sign that he had woken her up when he turned off the lights, but as he remained sitting in bed he heard a sleepy, muffled voice from the lump under the covers beside him.

"How'd it go?"

"Unexpectedly." To say the least. If there was one thing he hated – apart from getting caught and spending the night in jail – it was coming back from a heist empty-handed. There was always something humiliating about it.

Especially now that, when he thought about it, he had a definite sense that he'd been utterly and thoroughly had on that one.

What nagged at him – what infuriated him the most – was the annoying vague impression that the Flash might actually have been pretty likeable in another life. He had had an unwanted glimpse of the guy behind the mask and the lame jokes and the arrogant grin, and to his dismay he had found a human being, a pretty decent kid who had family issues and fears and doubts like everybody else. If that kid had been a self-centred jerk it wouldn't have been so unsettling – but he hadn't, damn him.

_Cut the crap already, Snart_, said a little voice at the back of his brain. _In another life you wouldn't have given him a second thought if you passed him by on the street_.

Still he frowned at the dark in front of him.

"Len? Something wrong?"

Janet rolled over to face him, half opening her eyes. He waited a bit before answering. But eventually he told her the main lines.

"… And I actually _listened_ to the kid. I could've frozen him right there, or at least incapacitated him – even just killed him. But … I didn't try to figure out something that could be useful about his identity at the time. Didn't even go back to that store afterwards." She blinked drowsily, possibly trying to make sense of what he was saying. Len couldn't blame her. It was so late in the night it was early in the morning. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

She didn't answer right away, still staring up at him beneath heavy eyelids. Then –

"Absolutely."

Len hadn't really been expecting a particular answer, but that one took him aback. He looked sharply at her.

"What?"

"Len, you're a human being. Of course you can be an idiot sometimes like the rest of us. Get over it."

Anger wrestled with tiredness for a little while, until Janet mumbled again, "That said, I don't … think you did wrong tonight. If it means the guy isn't gonna go all war-on-crime vigilante, then it wasn't … useless."

Not useless … maybe. But it was highly unproductive. And really _not_ something he was likely to tell Mick over whiskey sometime. No matter how drunk he could ever get.

Still. Hopefully, the Flash would be back to normal and they could keep playing their parts like they usually did. Cops and robbers. Cowboys and Indians. Heroes and villains. And the game would continue, with the same players, and more importantly, the same rules.

The lengths a guy can go to make sure the status stays quo, he mused as he finally lay down beside his wife, blinking in the darkness.

Then he mentally shrugged it off and was asleep even before his head hit his pillow.

* * *

The Flash would never go "all war-on-crime vigilante", but Janet doesn't know that ;o)

'Ralph and Sam' are of course Sam Sheepdog and Ralph Wolf, the epitome of 'punch the clock' hero and villain relationships – and the "If you're gonna shoot …" line is one of my favourite moments in _The Good, the Bad and the Ugly_. Great movie :D

Anyway, like I said, the premise seemed too good not to use, but I don't know if I did it or the characters justice. What d'you think?

Next up: _When THE Keystone City drug lord had a bone to pick with Mick Rory, both sides decided to meet in a neutral place and Captain Boomerang agreed to try to keep this lot from killing each other - with a healthy dose of booze._


	3. Crossroads

Author's note: back again! Much earlier, this time, too, since I had written this chapter a couple of months before I finished the previous one. Anyway, I loved writing it, but boy, was it hard. I did lots of research in Aussie beer, slang and whatnot and got to use a little bit here (yay!). There's a couple of "translations" at the page bottom, by the way :D

_Disclaimer: While I suppose I own Dick Kowalski and his mook Averell, I don't own any of the other characters who appear in this chapter. Good thing, too, because even though Captain Boomerang _is_ rather awesome in his own particular way, I really don't want to claim responsibility for him – he _is_ something of a smarmy bastard :D_

_

* * *

_

**Everybody Comes To Harry's**

CROSSROADS

When George 'Digger' Harkness, aka Captain Boomerang, pushed the door of the pub – happier than he'd care to admit to be out of the snow and the wet, bitter cold – he was early. Bit unusual, but that was all right. Plenty of time to order a lager and hang around, trying to think up a solution to the spring catch on the smallish steel boomerang he was working on. That glitch had to be corrected if he wanted to use it against the Flash. Now there was a hard customer, all right.

The pub wasn't half bad to wait around in, too. Not only was it warm (as warm as bloody Missouri could get in the middle of February, anyway – the music was pleasant and unobtrusive, and the pretty little thing who did the waitressing had some curves in the right places.

Never mind that she glared at him non-stop since he'd said something about that to her a couple of days ago. American girls were a stuck-up lot, he decided, not taking his chances tonight. Shrugging it off (and especially not pursuing the matter further) meant he had no trouble with Harry, and the last thing he wanted was trouble with a barkeep who, unlike many of his American counterparts, understood exactly what he meant when he ordered a pot of Vic _and_ could actually provide him with a pint.

Man like that was a tribute to his profession.

He sipped a bit of his lager with a grin, savouring the subtle flavour – despite its name, Victoria Bitter was not _that_ bitter – the fruity aroma and all the crap publicists liked to slap on a bottle. It was bloody good, a little piece of the mother country, and even though the mother country meant a lot of unpleasant business as far as he was concerned, it was still Oz. That meant something.

Plus the taste was just exactly what lager should be. American beer had nothing on it.

It was five to eight when he glanced at the clock and started to wonder if this was such a great idea after all. He'd only agreed because he happened to suggest it. Maybe it had been one of those times when he should've kept his big mouth shut.

Pity he never could spot those moments till it was too late.

A cold draft blew in as the door opened, letting in a few flakes of snow and two guys who headed for Digger's table as soon as they spotted him.

"I take it you're Kowalski," he said, not rising from his seat and eyeing the man from head to toe. Hard features, harder eyes, average frame – maybe the reason for the broad-shouldered flunky who lurked behind him – and something cold and calculating on his face. The kind of bloke you want to stay away from as long as possible, because he might be clever as hell, but he'll have no qualms whatsoever leaving you behind with a knife in your back if it meant saving his hide.

Richard Kowalski nodded, his eyes not leaving Digger's face, brushing snow off his shoulders. "They're late."

"Not yet, mate, you're five minutes early," he corrected, thoroughly enjoying the way the giant mook was looking this way and that uncertainly, as though unsure of whether to sit down or not. "'Ere, you gonna stand there till they get here, or d'you want to get a beer?"

Kowalski shrugged, and sat down, gesturing to the big guy to do the same. When the waitress came round to take their orders, he said casually, "I'll have the same thing he's having."

Digger raised an eyebrow with a smirk. "You sure? This is Aussie lager, mate. Heavy stuff."

The stare he got in return had a 'Why-Don't-You-Mind-Your-Damn-Business' quality to it.

"I'll take my chances."

The pretty waitress strode off to the bar with an order for two Victoria Bitters, and it gave Digger the opportunity to sneak a glance at a nicely rounded arse under the apron before returning to the business at hand. "You remember the terms?"

Kowalski opened his coat slightly, showing empty pockets. "No weapons, like we agreed. Averell, show the man."

The newly-named Averell stood up and emptied every pocket he seemed to have. While this extensive search turned out used paper hankies, bits of string, a paper clip or two and a couple of empty cartridges, it became obvious he didn't have any weapon. But Digger suspected that he wouldn't _need_ any if the situation called for it.

_He_ had his usual boomerangs up his sleeve and inside his jacket, but no need advertising that. He was only here as the neutral party after all. Anyway, no harm in being prepared.

The door opened again, and Kowalski's attention went from Digger to focus on the newcomers.

An Eskimo and a guy in a fire suit. Come to think of it, the association was pretty funny.

They went by the monikers of Captain Cold and Heatwave, but Digger had worked with them a couple of times, and this had been enough to learn that their actual names were Len Snart and Mick Rory, respectively. They worked with a third guy who called himself the Weather Wizard (why had he needed the alliteration bonus in his work name was anyone's guess since 'Mark Mardon' was already a good one) and called themselves the Rogues.

Everyone else called them 'The Flash's rogues gallery', a fact that annoyed the hell out of them.

Still, they were the only other 'costumed villains' in Central City – and probably in the whole Midwest, since most of the others hailed from Metropolis or Gotham – and as such, Digger felt a kinship of sorts with them. Especially given that the Flash seemed to take it upon himself to stop them whenever they tried something. Having a cheerfully grinning speedster _constantly_ on your case could really wear a bloke down.

They did get some respect, however, because in the three or four years or so since the city first heard of guys in costume playing cops and robbers, they had pulled some good stunts when the Flash had failed to either show up or stop them, on their own as well as together. It was also a well-known fact that, should one of them run into nasty business, the others would turn up and give a hand if a hand was needed.

The guys might dress in bright colours and go by funny names, but they were professionals, and they were efficient. And most of all, they were fiercely loyal.

One thing you learned quickly in Central City – and Digger himself had, ever since he had got here last year – you did _not_ mess with the Rogues.

This was the reason of his presence here, as well as Kowalski and his bodyguard. As he understood it, Rory used to work for the Keystone drug lord, but he'd called it quits a few years back and moved over to Central where he had become Heatwave. As it turned out, one of his old colleagues had just got out of prison, and claimed that not only was Rory responsible for putting him there, but that he also knew what had happened to a rather important supply of coke that they were supposed to intercept and bring back.

According to Rory, neither claim was true. This hadn't stopped Kowalski from sending guys after him to 'persuade' him to tell them the truth, especially about the bit about the coke. Mostly, Digger suspected, they were just after good old payback.

After the fourth attempt, Rory had finally told Snart and Mardon that Kowalski was after his blood. Digger had been sitting at the very next table during the conversation, and had suggested a non-violent meeting in a neutral place, with himself as the referee.

Exactly how charged he had been when he had come up with that suggestion, he couldn't even remember.

Since then, there had been a fifth 'persuasion' attempt on Rory, which had resulted in Kowalski's man landing in the hospital for a bad case of frostbite in suspiciously specific places on top of the now usual burns, and Kowalski accepting a temporary truce and a meeting at Harry's. Apparently, one his lieutenants had objected, arguing that the Van Buren Bridge that linked the twin cities was a more neutral choice for a meeting, but Kowalski had called him a silly bastard and stated that they were less likely to freeze their asses off in a pub.

Things like that got around fast.

So Digger was stuck with the thankless job of keeping everyone alive. This meant two things: no weapon – Cold showed his empty holster and Rory had left his flame-thrower gun thing at home – and beer. Lots of beer. And possibly those little special bottles that he only opened for special occasions.

Snart and Rory ordered the same thing Kowalski and Averell (was that his first name? Last name?) were having – suspicious, no doubt – sat down, and glared. They didn't even have to take off the blue glasses and the yellow goggles.

_Well. Aren't we off to a nice start._

"So, Rory," Kowalski began, his tone colder than the weather outside, "I hear you've been making a name for yourself. But seriously … 'Heatwave'? Was that the best you could come up with?"

Rory looked positively frozen – his lips were still tinged with blue and he seemed to have a hard time controlling shivers – but his burning glare could be felt from behind the goggles. "Did you cross the river just to throw sarcasm at me? Because you could have sent someone to do that for you. Oh, wait," he added with a thin, mocking smile, "you did. How're the guys, by the way?"

It was Kowalski's turn to shoot him a dirty – or rather, dirti_er_ – look. He took a hearty swig from his mug, his eyes not leaving Rory.

The waitress chose that particular moment to bring the two pints of lager. She took in the four men who glowered fiercely at each other, bristling, and her eyebrow went up.

"Anything I can help you with, gentlemen?" she asked, her voice halfway between caution and warning. Digger gave her his best grin. The one that, for some reason, left people thinking he was a smarmy bastard.

"Just bring us five more Vics, love. Don't worry, we all know the rules here."

She walked off, still stealing a glance or two over her shoulder from time to time.

The two parties relaxed imperceptibly. Round one was over, and nobody had lost yet.

"What rules?" said Averell, sounding nonplussed. Snart gestured with his gloved thumb to a sign on the wall, his eyes still staring straight in front of him.

"No powers. No funny business. And don't hog the damn bathroom."

"'Powers'?" Kowalski snorted. "You guys make me laugh. You have weapons – yeah, and powerful weapons too, I hear that this Weather Wizard's gear is pretty nasty – but it's not like you have _powers_. I heard about a guy in Gotham who can turn into clay. But you lot? Without your guns and your magic wands, you're nothing."

Snart's eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't exactly say that," he drawled, his voice dangerously low. "But still, I'd at least follow the other two if I were you. Especially the bit about the bathroom." He drank from his mug and raised an eyebrow. "That's good stuff. What is it?"

"Aussie lager," Digger supplied, starting on his second. "Best in the world. So – ya obviously didn't come all the way from Keystone for pleasantries, eh, mate? Best to settle it now so we can all enjoy our beer like it deserves to be enjoyed."

"All right." Kowalski leaned forward, his eyes boring into Rory's. "McKenna got out a couple of weeks ago. Remember him? You were supposed to back him up for that deal near Lampert Road. Instead you came back saying the cops had gotten him and you wanted to quit. Well, guess what he's told me?"

Rory shrugged, drinking his lager slowly.

"That you knocked him out and left him there for the cops to find, along with a potential customer and a half-pound of his best snow. And that you split with the rest of the dope. So, you tell me – who should I believe?"

"Believe McKenna, for all I care," Rory replied, outwardly calm but gradually looking less and less cold, as though anger warmed him up by the minute. "He's a bastard. Not to mention a first-class paranoid one, at that. I quit, isn't that enough for you?"

"No," Kowalski said flatly, finishing his lager just as the waitress brought five more mugs. "I want to hear you say you stabbed us in the back before you up and waltzed off to Central. I want to hear you admit you chickened out of a well-paid job and ran away like a goddamn coward. But mostly," he added, leaning on the table with a small, unpleasant smile, "I want to know what you did with _my_ two pounds of dope."

Rory made a disgusted face. "I didn't keep it, if that's what you mean," he spat. "Didn't sell it, either. I wanted to make my own money."

Digger stifled a yawn. This was getting boring. On the other hand, it was rather entertaining to see Averell shrink away unnoticeably from his employer, who was now very close to sneering.

On the other side of the table, Snart was watching intently, his own face inscrutable.

"Anyway," Rory continued, unruffled, "I was done working for ya. If you want to call me a coward, do it to my face – don't send muscle to try to scare stuff out of me. But I know what I'm worth." The thin smile resurfaced. "The last two guys you sent – they were your best shot, weren't they?"

"Of course not," Kowalski said with supreme disdain. "You're not worth that."

"But, Boss, _you_ said Davis was the best for that kinda work," Averell pointed out almost shyly – and it was a sight, to see this sheer mass of muscles try to take up as little space as possible. "It's a good thing that he was the best, too, because otherwise it would've been _bad_ …"

"Shut up, Averell," Kowalski snapped as Rory smirked.

"Look … _Dick_. You can keep sending your thugs after me, and I can keep roasting 'em till they get enough, but in the end it's your call. As far as I'm concerned, you're of the past. Off the roll. Been there, done that, bought the Combines T-shirt. I don't bother you in Keystone, you don't bother me in Central. Sounds fair?"

If Kowalski's face was any way to judge, it sure didn't. "Not nearly. Not by a long shot, actually. 'That your last offer?"

"I don't remember making an offer. More like a gentlemen's agreement. I stay off your turf, you stay off mine."

The two of them were back in full glare mode, but it didn't carry the same weight than it had when Rory and Snart had come in. Neither Snart nor Averell was adding their own to the glowering contest, for one, Snart leaning against the back of his seat with his arms crossed and a small smirk playing on his lips, and Averell looking unsure and glancing from his boss to the latter's former employee as though waiting for an instruction.

As far as Digger was concerned, it meant one thing.

"Right, so that's settled, then. Hey, look at what I got there – betcha never tasted this. Five empty glasses please, sweetie."

… Home-made Aussie rotgut. Right out from old Pa Wentworth's moonshine shed in Korumburra.

So far, it had never failed to lighten a conversation.

Four pairs of eyes with expressions ranging from mildly interested to downright hostile followed his careful movements as he poured each of them a small glass, taking great pains not to spill one drop. It always impressed Yanks when the liquid burned through the wood of the table, generally in a bad way. It gave them the wrong ideas.

They seemed to object to tasting something that made smoke when it touched a hard surface, go figure why.

Four pairs of eyes stared at him as he took the first gulp, savouring the fire in his throat and grinning widely.

This took him back. Way back. To when he'd been just another snotty larrikin with grubby, knobbly knees, running in the dust with his mates, practising throwing boomerangs and nicking stuff.

When he didn't drop dead, Kowalski and Averell on one side and Snart and Rory on the other each took their glass and emptied it. In one gulp. Digger blinked. They were off their bloody nut, the lot of them.

Of course, the most interesting part was always what happened after the first glass, so he certainly intended to stick around for that.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then Kowalski's eyes grew wider than Digger thought humanly possible. Rory's face quickly gained back colours as he half-opened his mouth in a silent scream, and finally Averell abruptly slid off his seat and under the table without a sound.

Only Snart appeared more or less unaffected. "Mick?" he asked, his voice a little too even to be entirely natural. "You look, uh … You don't look so cold anymore."

"That's because I'm not," Rory hissed, pulling off his goggles and tugging on his collar to let off some of the heat. His normally pale face was pink, with a deeper red colour on his cheeks. "Christ, Boomer, what's in that stuff?"

"Apples," Digger replied quickly, before correcting with a grin, "Well, _mainly_ apples."

Kowalski's eyes still looked about to pop out of their sockets, but he breathed deeply and said in a funny sort of voice, "Beets, too, I'll bet."

"Yup."

"'S what I thought."

The first surprise was gradually fading, and Kowalski, Snart and Rory were now eyeing Digger's bottle warily, caution vying with interest. Nobody was rolling on the floor with his mouth on fire – technically, Averell _was_ on the floor, but it was more of a boneless slump than a burning agony – so Digger took it as a good omen.

"I knew a Polish girl," he said, cheerfully pouring another round, "who used to drink that stuff for breakfast. Mostly it's bloke turps, though."

"Yeah," chimed Kowalski, funny voice still in full gear. "Brutal stuff you got there, ya gotta admit. Odd, too."

Rory took another gulp despite the fact that his eyes were watering, as though he couldn't quite believe it. "Definitely apples," he said vaguely. "You can taste the … Yeah. Apples."

"You know what?" asked Snart, who was halfway through his second glass but – Digger noted with amused curiosity – whose diction still remained clear. He raised it into the light and stared into the liquid. "Reminds me of that barn we hid in first time we worked with Mardon. Train job was a spectacular failure, but the moonshine was good. Red barn near Parkville, wasn't it?"

"Don't like red much," Rory muttered, eyelids drooping. He managed to open his mouth, blink, and utter, "Aw … _crap_ …" before his head hit the table with a thud.

Digger took his glass from him before he smashed head first into it, and glanced sideways to Kowalski, who seemed to make a point of drinking at the exact same speed as Snart. Who gave a small smirk.

"So. You gonna do as he said? Or do you want to bulk-order men to Central City General?"

"I don't remember agreeing to this particular arrangement," Kowalski snapped, suddenly back to business – although his voice still had something strangled about it. "Rory took something that's mine. McKenna _is_ a shifty bastard, but Rory's not getting off stealing from me and sending the guy in jail. If I'd known then, I wouldn't've let him leave."

Snart emptied his glass in one gulp – Digger raised an eyebrow – and leaned in with a cold stare made downright chilling by the abrupt disappearance of his (however unfriendly) little smile.

"Yeah. Well. He left. He left for reasons of his own, and he'll give 'em to you someday if he wants to. But that deal was off in the first place 'cause your man wanted to sell the dope to a guy who deals in schools to little kiddies. Mick objected, decked him, left him, and dumped the package in the Missouri river. Oh, and that McKenna guy actually wanted to keep the money and tell you the cops busted the deal and got the drug – maybe you'll want to ask him about that."

Kowalski's face was one ugly picture, and Digger was ready to bet anything that his little Aussie moonshine had little to do with it. It did, however, probably have something to do with him trying not to splutter and cough when he downed his second glass.

"Rory worked for _me_," he snarled, his face a flaming red. "On _my_ terms. He never had any goddamn moral dilemma protecting a candyman, and you wanna make me believe he suddenly grew a conscience and quit?"

Snart shrugged. "You believe what you want."

Then, in one quick motion, he reached across the table and grabbed Kowalski by the collar. Before the guy could strike back – or even register, Digger suspected – he said in the same low, cold voice, "But believe _this_: you come after one of us, I come after _you_. You get personal, we get personal back. Got it? So you and your goons stay the hell out of Central."

He released Kowalski and sat back down, his eyes still locked on him. Kowalski looked an interesting combination of dumbstruck, terminally furious, and dutifully hammered.

"You – you – stay out of – do you have _any idea_ who you're talking to?"

Len Snart put his right hand on the table. There was a small cold gun in it.

"Do you?" he asked evenly.

Kowalski's jaw hit the table. Digger swore under his breath and instinctively reached for one of his smaller boomerangs up his sleeve.

"You brought – we said no weapons!"

"And you've been sending your men after mine for two weeks," Snart retorted, his gun steady in his hand. "How dumb do you think I am?"

Kowalski stared at him. It was exactly the right occasion for a 'if looks could kill' remark, but Digger wisely kept his mouth shut for once. Because if looks _could_ kill … this one would have been a mass-destruction weapon.

Snart stood up slowly, but still sure-footedly, and pocketed his weapon. "So. I think this meeting's over. Agreed?"

When Kowalski got on his feet, he was considerably less steady and seemed well aware of it.

"This isn't over."

"Of course it is. You're a businessman – it so happens that this 'business' of yours is rather despicable, but to each his own – and you know how bad it is for business when you get distracted. And we provide _good_ distraction here in Central. Just ask the Flash."

He was just standing there with his hands in his pockets, not looking particularly threatening –nothing specific, rather – but Digger didn't put away his boomerang. It might have been due to the fact that he was smiling – a small, smug, crooked kind of smile. No way a guy who smiled like that could be harmless.

Kowalski seemed to think so, too, because he crossed his arms against his chest and spoke with as much menace and dignity he could muster while swaying imperceptibly and blinking.

"Let's say I agree to this. I leave Rory alone. What'll you do?"

The slight smirk didn't slip. "To you? Not a damn thing. We don't play in the same league."

For a moment it looked like a stalemate, neither opponent backing down. The silence and the tension dragged on.

Kowalski finally nodded, then backed away to the bar to call a cab, still not breaking eye contact. Only now did Digger discreetly remove his hand from his boomerang. Maybe this _could_ go down peacefully, after all.

When he was certain the bloke was out of earshot, he took another gulp and looked up at Snart.

"One 'Captain' to the other … That's one bloody good act you've got there, mate."

Snart was still standing – though leaning against the seat in a would-be casual manner – but his eyes had gone a bit glassy.

"What?" he muttered, his voice thicker than it had been barely a few seconds ago.

Digger grinned. Aussie moonshine … Never ceased to amaze him.

"You'd pull that kind of stunt for Mardon, too?"

"Well, yeah. Gotta stick together. Help each other out. Nobody's gonna do that for us if we don't."

"Right." Pretty sound reasoning, as far as Digger was concerned. There was only one problem: Captain Boomerang stuck his neck out for nobody.

Then again, those guys sure didn't look like 'nobody'.

Maybe it was worth a shot after all.

"You guys got something planned in the near future?"

"Go home and sleep for a week?" Snart suggested dryly, still watching Kowalski wait at the bar for his cab. Digger snorted.

"Besides that."

Snart stared him up and down, and bleary-eyed as he was, the appraising stare was still remarkably sharp. After a little while he said slowly, "We _might_ have something in the works. But if you're gonna be a part of that, you're going all the way. No backing-down at the last minute."

"Spiffy. Do I get to wear a nice badge, too?"

This should probably have got him more than just a deadpan stare, but Snart didn't say anything. Instead, his eyes followed Kowalski as he went to pick up Averell with some difficulty and walked out the door. The candyman returned the glare before he stepped out in the snow.

"Is he gone?" Snart asked. Digger peered out the door, saw the cab drive away, and nodded.

Snart replied flatly, "Good."

Then – his expression not shifting one bit – he slowly keeled over, stiff as a board.

Digger barely had time to catch him by the hood of his parka before he slammed to the floor nose first, swearing under his breath. The bloke was heavier than he looked. He should have seen it coming, though – when all was said and done, those Yanks were all a bunch of bloody Cadburies.

That was what he told Harry when he came over, angry and a little alarmed to see two of his most regular customers out for the count – and possibly a little bit curious as to exactly _what_ had knocked them out as well, because, as he pointed out to Digger, those two weren't exactly lightweights.

Digger showed him the bottle. Harry spent five minutes making him swear over and over again that he would never, ever bring that stuff in his establishment again.

He thought of Victoria Bitter, and swore as many times as Harry asked him to.

In the end, he got himself a chair in the back room and watched his two unconscious 'colleagues' where Harry and him had put them both on an old, sagging seat, knowing they would wake up a few hours later with the grandmother of all hangovers.

As he sat there finishing his glass, the dimmed sounds of faint music and conversation seeping through the door, Digger reflected on the evening and how it had played out. The almost 'job' offer in particular stuck in his mind.

He had never _asked_ for a job – this sort of job, anyway – before. He had never even wanted to. Work alone, that's what he did. But something in the months he'd spent working Central City had changed a bit of that view, and he suspected it had a lot to do with Snart and Rory's attitudes tonight.

They might be a grand total of three 'Rogues', but they were tighter than any group Digger had encountered before. Mardon hadn't shown up at all and had barely been mentioned, but if Kowalski intended to start any trouble again after this, Digger knew Keystone City was in for the meanest, most precise storms of its history. And his men would no doubt get tired of the 'fire and ice' routine before he did.

They were only three – two of them had showed up – but they stood up to one of the most powerful drug lord of the Twin Cities. And they did so with complete ease and confidence, knowing that they had the power to afford it.

Strength in numbers was not an illogical approach; it was only natural that 'costumed criminals', as the papers called them, tended to band together.

But in that precise case, there was something else – something different than logic – that kept whispering in Digger's mind that maybe, possibly maybe, there could be something there that could work.

You couldn't buy loyalty like that. Not with all the billions in all the banks in the world.

But you could work for it, and earn it. Possibly use it as a shield if necessary, too.

"I stick my neck out for nobody," he muttered to no-one in particular, only half-trying to sound convincing and failing anyway. It was a good thing, really, that he usually kept such a loose grip on his principles. Because working with these blokes may very well prove worth letting go of that particular one.

That is – Digger's slight smirk slipped a bit – if they even wanted to have anything to do with him after tonight's show. Unless they just cut to the chase and killed him.

_Not my fault if the bloody Yanks can't handle real stuff, is it._

* * *

I had fun with the Aussie slang, but boy, I hope the research was worth it! It's one thing to write in a foreign language in a dialect that seems to have taken up quarters in your inner ear (as some British English idioms and American English appears to have where I'm concerned) but I don't know that much about how Australian English sounds and sings and rolls, so I apologise to any Aussies out there /:o) I'll work harder next time, mates ;o)

That said, a little glossary (found all the words on an appendix in the Wiktionary entry for Australian English, if you're interested):  
***"****charged****"** means drunk. Meant to use "blotto" at some point ('cause it"s such a fun word) but ended up not. The Australian must have about as many words for "drunk" as the British have, and believe me, that's saying something.  
* a "**larrikin****"**, according to the Wiktionary, is "a person who is rebellious, non conformist and/or anti–authoritarian" and/or "Someone with an amused, irreverent, mocking attitude to authority and the norms of propriety." The way I see it, Digger might have been one as a kid, and I think he'd like to think he still is, but he's a bit too cynical and smarmy to be one. Funnily enough, discovering that word made me love Australians more – a larrikin sounds so much like a Gavroche :D  
***"****turps****"**is any kind of alcohol. Almost put "piss" (works too) but didn't seem nearly as funny.  
* a "**Cadbury****"** is someone who gets drunk very quickly (the name comes from the shortbread). English/Irish/Australian beers do have considerably more alcohol in them than your average Bud, by the way, but Digger's rotgut takes the cake :D

Couple of references here too – _Discworld_ fans will know where the "mostly apples" comes from, but the main idea of a summit meeting with funny/heavy moonshine actually comes from a 1960s French gangster (dark) comedy called _Les Tontons Flingueurs_, which you've probably never heard of, but is one of the most remembered (and _fun_) films in France. The language barrier is such a drag sometimes :S By the way, Kowalski and Averell are both named them after French cartoons and/or comics characters as a wink and a nod – both sympathetic, too. Do they ring a bell for you? :o)

Next up: _Mark Mardon wasn't sure whether he __had__ killed his brother or not. What he knew for certain was that he planned to drink like there was no tomorrow, and he sure as hell had not expected company._


	4. Family Matters

Author's note: New chapter :o) This weekend's going to be busy (my brother-in-law's getting married! I love weddings!), so I thought I'd post it now. 'Cause I'd like your opinion :o)

A bit of context before we go? The first time we see the Weather Wizard (aka. Mark Mardon) in the cartoons, it's in an episode of _Superman: the Animated Series_, where Supes and Flash have a race to determine who is the Fastest Man Alive. His brother Ben decides he's going too far when Mark threatens people with Ben's "weather wand" in order to get money, and leaves to call the police. Superman and Flash save him from a freak hail storm courtesy of his brother, and go stop Mark and put him in jail. Since the Weather Wizard we later see in _JL_ and _JLU_ seems to go from group to different group – eventually making the deadly mistake of siding with Grodd against Lex Luthor – and his brother is never mentioned again … Well. Here goes.

_Disclaimer: I don't own anybody here except for Harry (but not his pub!) and Janet (although it's the brief mention of a Mrs. Snart in Flash and Substance that made me write her – see _Wife_ for details :o) Come to think of it, though, that weather wand would be quite handy … If such a thing existed :P_

* * *

**Everybody Comes To Harry's**

FAMILY MATTERS

Rain was falling – no – _pouring_ on the windows of the pub. Lost in his own personal foggy mist of alcohol, Mark Mardon idly wondered whether people noticed the gloriously multicoloured sunset light just across the street.

He could correct the anomaly if he wanted. But right now, he really didn't give a damn about it.

He didn't even marvel at the way the weather wand worked. Not anymore.

Mark Mardon had never been one to marvel, anyway. He'd left that to Ben.

And now Ben was dead.

Mark took another large gulp. The liquid burned his tongue and rekindled the fire in his throat. No, not good enough. He could still feel. He still couldn't forget the dead eyes of his brother staring at him, accusing and scared and shocked and sad …

Mark emptied his glass in one gulp and wordlessly pushed it in front of him for Harry to fill it. The barkeep – and owner – was known to be one of the most accommodating of his profession, never asking unwanted questions and as reliable as can be. But this time there was something in his eyes as he picked up Mark's glass.

"I'm not in the habit of judging customers," he said quietly. "But I'm not sure you should –"

Mark's hollow stare went right through him, and he backed up slightly, almost flinching.

"I got money."

"That's not what I mean."

"Fill it up."

Harry didn't move an inch for a little while. Mark looked at him – really looked _at_ him, leaving aside the aimless see-through gaze – and he sighed, then picked up a bottle under the bar.

"Customer's always right," he muttered, disapproval underlying his tone. Mark shrugged.

Another gulp. Ben's eyes still stared at him in his mind.

If it hadn't been for that damn lightning storm … If he hadn't tried to grab the wand … If Mark hadn't grabbed it first … Then maybe …

It wasn't like they hadn't had fallouts before. Mark almost snickered at that. Ben had had a hand – a pretty damn big hand, at that – in landing him to jail in the first place. Hell, Mark had even tried to kill him back then, when Ben had bailed out in his car to sic the cops on his own brother. But … This was different. He hadn't been looking at his brother that day as he unleashed a hail storm on his car. He hadn't seen the face he knew since he was three years old contort in terror and denial and shock. He hadn't heard him screaming.

It hadn't felt _real_.

Not like last night had felt, when the lightning struck.

All Ben had to do was to hand over the weather wand … Instead he'd threatened to call the cops again, this time because Mark had escaped from jail. _Stupid. Stupid and soft and …_

Another gulp. Mark closed his eyes. The stuff made his eyeballs sting.

… _Stupid._

The downpour outside became louder, a sign that the door had opened. The next moment, Mark blearily noticed that the stool on his left had someone on it. Someone who was dressed in blue and white and looked tired and wet.

"Looking for me?" Mark asked, too groggy for his voice to sound remotely as sarcastic as he intended. Captain Cold took off his glasses and put them on the bar before ordering a coffee. But Mark wasn't fooled. Even with the glasses off and the hood down, Len Snart was always the captain. And – but that was surely the booze talking – maybe there were times when it wasn't such a bad thing.

"Figured you'd come here at some point. Then I saw the rain. You're not exactly inconspicuous."

"'The hell are you doin' here?"

"Having a coffee." Len took one of the slowly melting ice cubes from the bowl near Mark's glass and plopped it into his steaming coffee. Mark didn't comment. They all had their quirks.

"We heard something on the grapevine. About a guy dying yesterday at the observatory, of natural causes, they said." When Len looked sideways at him, the sharpness in his eyes cut straight through the fog. "Name of Benjamin Mardon."

Hearing his brother's full name instantly turned Mark's insides – those that were not currently churning courtesy of the whiskey – to lead. He grabbed his glass with a shaking hand and downed yet another gulp.

"You didn't answer m–my question."

"Yeah, I did. You're just too plastered to get it." He put another ice cube into his cup. The steam was completely gone. "You want to get drunk like there's no tomorrow, fine by me. Just thinking you might want somebody to drink with." He took a sip of his coffee, frowned, and a third ice cube went into the cup. "Or to haul your ass back home before Harry here leaves you to sleep it off on the pavement at closing time."

Harry – who would certainly never think of doing such a thing, but who usually made it a point of honour and a trademark not to interfere with customers' conversations – raised his head sharply and opened his mouth. He closed it when Len shot him a look that Mark couldn't decipher, and didn't care to.

"Well, I don't."

"Tough break. I'm not moving from here."

_Damn_. Mark took another gulp, deliberately avoiding looking to his left. This one didn't burn as bad as the previous did.

The silence – not perfect silence, but some kind of low background noise that included quiet conversation, shuffling and rustling of cloth, and a Bruce Springsteen song somewhere in the mix – was unsettling. Especially since Mark had been so completely wrapped up in his whiskey and his black mood and the image of his dead brother hanging in front of his eyes that he hadn't been paying the least bit of attention to his surroundings. The sky could have fallen on him, he wouldn't have noticed.

But he noticed now. The world was still foggy and the lines blurred, but the silence was too obvious to be ignored.

Len put yet another ice cube in his coffee.

Something snapped in Mark's brain, and he found with the last remnant of horrified self-consciousness that alcohol really did loosen people's tongues.

"He was an idiot. And I'm a murderer." He paused to down the rest of his whiskey. "I think," he added thickly.

Len said nothing, taking a gulp from his ice-cold coffee. Mark's stare remained fixed on the row of bottles in front of him. The labels all looked the same from here.

"Got out of jail yesterday, and the ob – obs – Ben's place was nearest. Thought he'd lemme crash the night. Crappy night, with storms and rain and lightnin' all over the place."

There had been so much electricity in the air … It had made every single hair of Mark's stand on end. Even before he got there.

"Thought wrong. He said he was gonna call the cops, he _had_ to call the cops, 'cause what I did was _wrong_ – his own brother – he woulda turned me in like that. And I didn't want to go back …" His hands began shaking even harder than they had. "_I didn't want to go back_. So I reached for the wand – figured I'd threaten him – he reached for it too – and –" He swallowed, carefully keeping his eyes on the bottles in front of him. "Lightning struck. Struck him. I don't know if … That could've been me, that must've … That might … I don't know."

Springsteen shifted to Johnny Cash on the stereo, and nothing else changed. Ben's dead eyes were still there. But there was something in Len's eyes now, like an echo of the emptiness Mark had been trying to fill with whiskey, and it meant something. Mark wasn't sure what. He wasn't sure of anything by that point.

"You may never know."

"Yeah, I … Yeah. And … I mean, I tried to k – have him killed before. But now … I just … I can't get his eyes outta my head now, I can't … Can't think of anything else. My brother's dead. My family. The only person in the world who gave a crap whether I live or die … and I killed him."

To his absolute horror, Mark felt his throat start to close in on itself, his eyes to sting, and this time he didn't have the alcohol to blame for it.

If Len noticed anything, he didn't comment on it. Instead, he downed half of his cold coffee in one gulp and turned to look at Mark in the eye, leaning on the bar.

"See, that's where you're wrong, Mardon. If your brother really was the only person in the world who gave a crap whether you live or die, Mick wouldn't be watching the observatory in case you returned, Digger wouldn't be on his way to Wyoming to check on your old place, and I wouldn't be sitting here drinking coffee. There you go, Harry," he added, paying for the coffee – and possibly for the whiskey as well. Mark just sat there, too soused and tired to do anything else than blink blearily.

"When are you getting that into that thick head of yours? We're Rogues, goddammit! We look after our own!"

"Not family," Mark uttered thickly.

Len's eyes burned.

"Exact same thing. 'Cept we don't dump judgement on you like some others do. You think you're the only one with a screwed-up family around here?" His voice dropped, getting downright chilling. "Look around. There's a man here who saw a mugger slit his mother's throat when he was six. Blond guy, over there? Just got out of jail because he murdered the friend of his parents' who used to get into his room every other afternoon when they weren't home and have his little fun. Hell, even –"

He stopped short, and Mark was not so drunk yet that he didn't notice the fire in Len's eyes die out, replaced for a second by something ugly, savage, and hollow. And through his whiskey-induced mist he realised that he really didn't want to be privy to whatever was making their _de facto_ leader look like _that_.

It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Mark unnerved.

"Look," Len went on as though nothing had happened – and Mark certainly wasn't about to correct him, "that's the way we do things here. We _deal_ with things, and we do it together."

"Oh, come on," Mark muttered in spite of himself – booze talking again, probably. "I been a crook for years. Just started this –" he pointed to the weather wand, "– a while back, because I saw an opportunity. You know me, Len, I blow with the wind. You need me, okay, I'm here, but … I don't stick around much."

Len was silent for a few seconds, as though hesitating, then seemed to make up his mind on something.

"Well, we need you now. There's supposed to be some extra-secret shipment of freshly-printed bills going through Central next month, by train. Plan still needs adjustments, and there's always room for someone who can provide getaway fog at the very least. What do you say? Can I count on you?"

Mark's head was starting to get really heavy, and he idly wished that he could check in a mirror whether it had doubled in volume of whether it was just an impression. But he vaguely nodded, wincing.

"Yeah. Yeah, probably. You … Lemme think on it."

"Sleep on it, more like," Len corrected, finishing his coffee – _Ice-cold coffee_, Mark thought,_ man that must be disgusting_ – and getting off his stool. "C'mon. Let's get you to a place to crash."

"Haven't got one."

"Figured that out."

Len swung one of Mark's arms across his shoulder, and heaved. Mark sagged, his head lolling and his neck muscles completely useless.

"Hey, don't fall asleep on me now. I'll have enough trouble getting you past the wife and to the basement, so don't you start drooling on my shoulder as well."

Mark did make an effort. He hadn't met Janet Snart many times, but he knew how scary she could get if she had a mind to.

When Len pushed open the door of the pub, it felt like some punk kid had played on them the old pail-of-water-balancing-on-the-door trick. Icy rain poured on them at right angles, and soon both men were soaked to the bone.

At least Mark was feeling slightly more awake now. _Slightly_.

He also felt compelled to say, "Y'know, B–Ben wuh-was an idiot b–but he … he was a good idiot. A g … a good m–man."

"Yeah. We can't afford the luxury of being either in our profession, Mark."

They walked in silence for a little while, sloshing their way through the rain, Mark leaning more heavily on Len every minute. He felt like he was treading through cement.

"There seems to be a rain cloud just over our heads," came Len's voice at some point, and Mark knew him well enough to know that he was doing his best to sound mildly annoyed when he was actually really pissed off. "_Just_ over our heads. Can't you do something about it?"

Mark grunted, his hand closing on the weather wand as though by itself. After some seconds of intense effort, he finally felt the rain lessening, giving way to …

Len sighed resignedly.

"That's … Not really helping."

Snow.

He'd set the wand on _snow_.

… And right now, he had no clue about how to set it on anything else. The term 'blissfully drunk' did not apply here – not with Ben's ghost following him step by step – but whatever he was apart from tired and dripping wet and cold, he was too much to use the wand properly.

Len's shivering kept him awake for maybe ten minutes after that, but he eventually blacked out before they reached the house.

Which made Mark wonder for quite a while when he finally woke up in relatively unfamiliar surroundings.

He was on a couch with a couple of blankets over him and –

– and Ben was dead.

And he had the mother of all hangovers.

Pain the size of Metropolis hit him like a baseball bat on the nose at the exact same time his guts seemed to drop out into the pit of his stomach. _Ben_. Ben staring at him, Ben saying he'd call the cops, Ben reaching for the wand …

Mark groaned and screwed up his eyes against the splitting headache.

"Mr Mardon? Are you awake?"

The voice hadn't screamed loudly into his ear, Mark was aware of it – in theory – but it certainly felt like it. When he had blinked a couple of hundred times, he looked up into a woman's face where curiosity vied with casual annoyance.

"Wuh – what – where …?" Even the sound of his own voice made him flinch. Was that _really_ his voice?

"Oh for God's sake, there's no need to shout," she said – _Janet_ – _Len's wife_. _Yeah_. Memories crawled back into his brain as though they were ashamed to get back home so late.

When he propped himself up on his elbows – still blinking furiously – his eyes went from Janet, who was putting the wet washing into a basket (throwing each item of clothing as though it had done her personal harm) to Len, who was slouching in an armchair with his feet propped up on a chair, snoring quietly.

"Watched you all night and all morning," Mark heard Janet say behind him, and he managed to sit up properly and turn his head to look at her. "To make sure you wouldn't get alcohol intoxication or whatever it's called."

There was a weary sort of disapproval in her voice as she finished putting her laundry into her basket, as though being used to this sort of thing didn't stop her from voicing her discontent. Mark avoided commenting on that.

He didn't know Janet that well, but odds were that they were both thinking the same thing. Len might be many things, most of them not really pleasant, but when push came to shove he really took the 'Captain' part of his nickname seriously.

Rogues did look after their own. And Len looked after his Rogues. It was pretty much a given.

Sometimes it didn't leave a lot of room for Janet, but she was used to that.

She planted herself in front of Mark, still holding the laundry basket and staring at him pointedly, interrupting his train of thought.

"Do you think you can make it stop snowing now? Only I've got to hang these out to dry."

"Oh – yeah, sure." Mark picked up the wand, and set it to the right coordinates. "Done now. Sorry about that."

"That's okay. I don't care what the neighbours might say, but it _was_ getting hard to open the front door with all the snow." She stared at him a few seconds, then blurted out, "I'm sorry about your brother."

Her voice came out curt and brisk, as if she'd heard about the concept of comforting someone but had never really picked up on it. But the words themselves sounded genuine. Mark nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and not knowing what Len had told her about it.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, she put down her basket as an afterthought, and went to arrange the blanket around Len. Her eyes softened as she tucked his arm inside, just for a second. Then she turned to Mark again, her eyes back to their usual impersonation of a pair of gimlets.

"Come on upstairs. I'll make you some coffee."

As Mark sat in front of his steaming cup – a sensible, thick thing which for some absurd, unfathomable reason had a penguin on it – he stared at the wall opposite and let his thoughts wander.

He wasn't all right. Not by a long shot.

But, he reflected as the hot liquid burned his tongue and his throat on the way down, at least he had a reason to stick around.

If only, he later found, in order to pay the remainder of his rather impressive tab at Harry's.

… Because Len's twenty bucks had not been nearly enough to cover the whole thing after all.

* * *

Mardon does make a cameo in Flash and Substance in the pub where the Rogues hang out, along with a very enjoyably-Silver-Age-y bunch of Flash villains :D But since in the very next episode he's in Grodd's lair in a swamp somewhere (possibly in Europe), I'm taking this as a let's-make-as-many-Rogues-cameos-in-one-scene kind of thing. Which means that man, does that guy get around or what!

…erm. Anyway. I like to try and build bridges between DCAU and comics!verse; I don't _quite_ agree with the Question on the "A is A" thing, but I believe there's a core to each character that you can find resonating in every universe, like for instance Lex Luthor being _very_ smart, good or bad guy. Sure, maybe somewhere on Earth 876 or something Lex Luthor is dumb as a post and Central and Keystone Cities don't have a bunch of colourful-clothed misfits on either side of the law, but I wouldn't count on that :D

Hope you liked, but if you did, please tell me! I don't usually go fishing for reviews, but I'd like to know if/what you did or didn't like, because I can't very well guess :o)

Next up: _Mirror Master hadn't figured that the Thanagarians' martial law would change anything for him. After being caught on a heist, beat up, shot at and forced to run for his life, he had to admit that, maybe, he had figured wrong._


	5. Objects in the Rear View Mirror

Author's note: Hello, all :o) I hope I find you well, and that people are still interested in this story :P Anyway, Mirror Master's chapter eluded me for a while, but then I remembered I wanted to expand on the little mention of the Central City underground's reaction to the Thanagarian invasion in _Villains_. Throw in a little "occupied country" vibe (because here in France we have a vastly different experience of WW2 from the US – not worse, not better, just _vastly_ different, and some of it shows in the collective unconscious) and … well. You have this chapter :o)

_Disclaimer: Let me check … no, I still don't own these characters, except for Bruiser Bob, Mildly Dangerous Dennis and Fred (who doesn't have a nickname), two of which already made a cameo in _Villains_. I like 'em :o)_

* * *

**Everybody Comes To Harry's**

OBJECTS IN THE REAR VIEW MIRROR

"Don't let him go!"

Sam threw the mightiest punch he could and finally twisted and weaselled his way out of the death grip on his throat. The very next second, he instinctively ducked for cover as shots were fired his way. He really didn't want to stick around to find out exactly what those hawk people used for guns.

And then what felt like a red-hot iron burned through his left side, and he was thrown on the cold, slippery pavement. Gritting his teeth so hard his jaw hurt and screwing up his eyes to chase the blinking white dots, he picked himself up from the ground and scrambled down the darkened street, throwing himself in the nearest back alley behind a couple of cardboard boxes.

No mirror gun, no tricks. It was all down to brains for him now – that, or sheer dumb luck.

Fortunately, he still had his emergency duplicating device, the one that could bend light to create a double of himself (one only, since he had designed it as a last resort). Sam activated it from his poor hiding-place, hoping and almost praying that it was dark enough for the hawks to fail to see him and run after his mirror double. Which was tenuous wishful thinking at best, if those people's eyesight was as good as their Earth bird namesakes.

"He went that way!"

"I got him, I know I did –"

Samuel Joseph Scudder was up the creek and desperately searching for a paddle.

And all of this for one little sapphire. A sweet little 200-carat beauty.

He couldn't believe he was this close to dying for 200 carats. Surely Mirror Master's life must be worth more than _that_.

Heavy-booted feet ran past him, mere inches from his hidey-hole, and he found himself holding his breath. It wasn't easy when your whole chest seemed to have caught fire and spread it to your guts and stomach. Not to mention the pain from the gun wound, so hot it was beginning to feel ice-cold. Warm, sticky blood was running down along his side, and he hoped _hard_ that it would be inconspicuous enough not to betray his presence.

When he was sure the boots were gone, Sam stood up unsteadily, and looked around for a mirror – a window – any reflective surface. He only found darkness. Martial law meant more than just hawks patrolling the street armed to the teeth and bullying people – it also meant all streetlights had be switched off from eleven PM to four AM.

Sam did _not_ want to know what those damn hawks did to people they caught when the light went down. Although he did have an idea about that by now.

An ominous sound made him start, and through the pain and the fear, hatred flashed in his mind. Sam Scudder did _not_ get scared of anyone. He got angry, and he got revenge.

Fact was, it was real easy to get scared when getting the crap beat out of you and shot at point-blank was the _nicer_ option.

Not for the first time in thirty-six hours, he wondered where the others were.

Then he shook himself out of it as he recognised the street beyond the alley. If he could get to that particular door, he'd be saved. Maybe.

Putting one foot in front of the other was surprisingly difficult. Those hawks – Thanagarians, they'd said on the news the other day – must have hit harder than he thought when they caught him. But Sam doggedly stayed on his feet, even if that meant leaning on the wall for support for a while as he peeked round the corner.

No sign of wings or heavy hawk armour. So far, so good.

Sam limped across the street, turned right _there_, ran down the small flight of steps and made what must have been – judging by the looks on the few faces that gaped up at him – one hell of an entrance.

"Mirror," he gasped, only stopping to wipe the blood trickling down into his right eye from a cut under his mask. "Need a mirror, Harry. _Now_."

Harry almost dropped the glass of draft beer he was holding. He recovered admirably fast, however, and said sharply, "Bathroom."

Sam thanked him as he ran past the bar and into the small and relatively clean bathroom, with the two taps that worked and the one that didn't, the tile floor, the cubicles and the big mirror above the row of sinks. Sam activated his mirror-dimension device and plunged into it.

Now he could finally collapse, and gladly took the opportunity to do so. For a few seconds he remained slumped there, pressing a hand to his wounded side and panting, aware of not much except for the pain, his own heavy breathing and the tang of blood in his mouth, too exhausted to attempt another mirror jump.

After a while, though, his vision cleared and he spotted Dorothy – the heavy-set forty-something waitress who did the night shift – on the other side of the mirror, cursorily cleaning the small smear of blood and the shoe mark he had left on the sink before he leaped.

He saw her raise her eyes to the mirror with a nervous, but determined look on her face.

"Make yourself scarce," she whispered, and loud and clear he heard the door open and the sound of boots gradually drowning the quiet music and the low conversation. "We'll sort it out."

Sam let her see his reflection and flashed her a look of gratitude before retreating to the safety of his mirror world, where everything was flipped over and populated by people's reflections, none of which ever noticed him, let alone bothered him. He had actually freaked out a bit the first time he had set foot in there, wondering if he had stepped into a world full of ghosts or whether he was the one who died. However, he had quickly found out that neither was true and come to appreciate the comfort of solitude, as well as the thrill of being the only one in the room who was _real_. A guy could get high on that feeling.

The mirror bathroom had the usual slightly dream-like quality as Sam walked across it and opened the door, almost pushing it the wrong way out of habit. The bruises and the gun wound did not hurt as much there, the pain a reflection of what he would be experiencing in the real world. It played merry hell with his perception, however. Everything was slightly warped and weird, some of the lines, shapes and colours a little off, and if he hadn't gotten used to it long ago he knew he would have been on his knees, throwing up the contents of his stomach.

The labels on the bottles behind the bar were all backwards, of course, and in other circumstances Sam would probably have played his little game of deciphering them. It was a neat, though pretty useless trick that he seemed to be the only one to master – or to give a damn about, really.

Everything was reversed, but in its place, and the five hawk soldiers near the door were one hell of an exception.

"We are looking for a hu – for a man. He may have come in here to hide. Have you seen someone enter recently?"

This Thanagarian's armour had more things that could pass for trimmings or decorations than the other hawks', so Sam suspected he was the leader. The voice reached Sam's ears subtly distorted and slightly too low or high as he went to sit on an empty seat in a far corner, trying to brush off the dizziness and focus on the scene in front of him.

The only three customers – Bruiser Bob, Mildly Dangerous Dennis and Fred (who didn't have a nickname) – were frozen in place as effectively as though Len's cold gun had done the trick. Dorothy stood near the billiard table with her arms crossed and a stony expression, pursing her lips as two hawks walked past her to search the whole of the pub.

Harry ran the glass he was cleaning under the tap, and calmly looked up at the invaders.

"Is he among my current patrons, sir?"

The Thanagarian leader took a few steps into the room, his bulky wings brushing against the bar on one side and the tables on the other, and stared down at the three recovering, but still round-eyed men.

"No," he said curtly after a short while. "The man we were trying to apprehend resisted arrest – he should have a distinctive bruise or two by now. Besides, he was wearing this … _peculiar_ costume by human standards –"

"Who're you calling 'peculiar', ya big winged freak," Sam muttered between his teeth, wishing his normally strange but steady world would stop spinning.

"– And it's not likely he would have time to change into inconspicuous clothing. Has any of you gentlemen seen something … or someone … _out of place_ in the last ten minutes?"

"Besides you, ya mean?" Mildly Dangerous Dennis quipped, his face carefully deadpan. Bruiser Bob took a gulp from his beer without a word, his eyes not leaving the hawk's face.

It was hard to see with that bird mask helmet thing he had on, but Sam was sure his eyes narrowed.

When he abruptly turned around to face the bar – and Harry – his wings swept away No Nickname Fred's glass, which fell to the ground and shattered. Fred gave an outcry in protest.

"Hey, that was my beer, you bast –"

Almost instantly – not the Flash kind of 'instantly', but still moving pretty quick for such mass – the two remaining Thanagarian soldiers appeared behind their leader, one training a lethal-looking spear at Fred's throat and the other one of their guns. Sam's hand instinctively clasped his bleeding side tighter.

Mildly Dangerous Dennis plunged a hand in his jacket as Bruiser Bob slowly began unfolding his six-foot-two frame, but No Nickname Fred threw his hands in the air (carefully, because of the spear to his throat) and stammered, "Okay, okay, hey, back down – it's only beer, right? I mean, yeah, finer stuff you won't find in Central, but it ain't worth gettin' all worked up for, now, awright?" He threw a side glance at Dennis and Bob, who was halfway up. "Siddown, fellas."

Something passed between the three, and the big guy sat back down. The Thanagarians lowered their weapons.

The leader eyed them with a mixture of suspicion and interest Sam decided he didn't like one bit.

"So. You didn't see anything?"

"Didn' see nothin' unusual," came Bruiser Bob's low, gentle voice – always a surprise for those who heard him speak for the first time. He, Dennis and Fred stared up at the hawk soldier in the When-is-he-gonna-leave expectant kind of way.

"Tano, Lak – found anything?" he called, glancing over to the stairs that lead to the cellars, which the two scouts were walking back up.

"No-one, sir," they said, and Sam thought he saw both Harry and Dorothy imperceptibly sag in relief.

The real nasty surprise came when two other Thanagarians came in through the emergency exit. They had known about the back door, Sam realised with a nasty jolt. They had probably been posted there first in case anybody had tried to slip out back.

There was always _supposed_ to be a back door. Didn't those damn hawks know anything about the rules of the game?

"Nobody got out that way, sir," one of them said, and the leader nodded.

"Thank you, Corporal."

The leader turned again to the bar, this time keeping his wings tucked in tighter, and looked at Harry straight in the eye.

"The man we caught, who escaped – he broke into a museum and tried to steal a valuable diamond. Not only was he in complete violation of martial law, but he was committing a felony. Now, _you_ at least seem like a law-abiding citizen, and I'm sure you understand that our current … presence here is for the greater good. Why, then, do I get the impression that there is something you aren't telling us?"

Harry finished drying the beer mug he had in his hands, unflappable as ever, and returned the stare calmly.

"I don't know what on Earth gave you that impression, sir."

A few seconds ticked away while each of them held their ground, the Thanagarian bristling with cold anger and the barkeep still and serenely calm. Woody Guthrie played softly in the background, always a favourite for the quiet closing hours.

Sam couldn't help holding his breath, no matter how painful it was.

The Thanagarian soldier broke the stand-off first. He turned his back on Harry, his face a mask of cold detachment.

"I've had it with the lowlifes of this planet," he said to the company at large, both hawk and humans, before focusing on the latter. "We came here to protect you from the Gordanian menace – we _try_ to keep things under control while your so-called 'Justice League' is being detained for interrogation, we do. Well, if this is how you thank us, then orders be damned – if we catch a human breaking the law now, any law – you'll see just how _swift_ justice in wartime is like on Thanagar."

He made quite the very dramatic exit, armour clinking and wings spread out larger than what was necessary, and the six others followed suit. Sam waited a couple of minutes – in case they came back without a warning – and when Dorothy turned away from the window where she had been keeping watch, he stood up carefully, still trying to blink away the white dots that had come back with lots of little friends, and made his way to the bathroom, where the mirror shone like a beacon.

Sam had never had more difficulty getting through a mirror before. Worse still – all the pain he hadn't really felt while in the mirror dimension came crashing back at once, sending him to the tile floor, wheezing, his eyes screwed up and his fists clenched so tight he almost bruised the leather on his knuckles.

Then someone carefully helped him back on his feet.

"Well, aren't you popular with our guests from outer space," he heard Harry mutter. "Easy there. They banged you up good, didn't they?"

"Fought back," Sam mumbled, struggling to clear his vision. "Socked a couple of the bastards. Did it show?"

"Yeah, Scudder, they were a bloody mess all over," came the sarcastic of No Nickname Fred as he took his other arm and slung it across his shoulder. "Bet they were really sorry they ran into you."

"Wiseass."

He only got a snort in reply.

Harry crouched behind the bar and knocked a couple of times on the floor.

"Open up, people, you got another roomie."

To Sam's amazement, a trapdoor of sorts opened, and a familiar face popped up. Mick Rory pushed up his goggles off a pair of alarmed – especially for him – eyes. "Christ, Sam, what the hell happened to you?"

"Run-in with the Thanagarians," Harry explained, helping Sam through the trapdoor and down the few steps. "Same ones I warned you about ten minutes ago. Careful, now."

In all of the years he'd known the pub, Sam had never even suspected the existence of this little room. It looked like a low, large cellar, mainly used to store maintenance equipment and barrels and casks of various alcoholic contents. Dust and fluff filled the far corners, but it was well-lit and mostly clean. Probably a leftover from the Prohibition.

But Sam was ready to bet anything that some of the stuff here didn't come with the original package. Especially the rubber chicken. Those generally came with a Trickster attached.

Uncharacteristically, when he spotted the trademark bright colours, James Jesse was white and silent.

"Get him on the couch," said a voice behind him, pretty quiet but carrying underlying tones of anger – and possibly a little bit of worry – so hot it sounded cold. Sure enough, once Sam was lying on the couch (an old, battered thing that had probably seen better decades but felt damn comfortable) doing his best to brush off the world of hurt he was in, Captain Cold peered at him with narrowed brown eyes.

"What did they shoot you with?"

"Dunno, didn't stop to ask," Sam muttered, taking his cowl off gingerly and wincing at the amount of congealed blood on the inside. "'S'not that bad, though."

Len and Mick exchanged looks. _Great._ Almost all the old crowd was there, as though this wasn't already embarrassing enough. (At least Harry had gone back up the steps and closed the trapdoor behind him.) All it took for a full Rogues reunion now would be Mark (who was in jail in Metropolis), Digger (nobody knew where _he_ was half the time) and …

"Bullshit," said a low voice.

Sam almost fell off the couch in shock, and even Len and Mick looked startled. With reason.

Hartley Rathaway – aka the Pied Piper – almost _never_ swore. In the five or six years they'd known him, anyway, he must have uttered _one_ curse. Or possibly two. But the occurrence was certainly exceptional enough to unsettle all of them.

Sam knew for a fact that it took a lot to make him depart from the usual friendly politeness that could rapidly turn to ironic distance if needed be. He must be pretty shaken, then.

Piper's … tastes aside, he could eventually consider the display as not _weird_ but rather touching …

No. Wait. Something else was unnerving the kid. Something bigger than just a bunch of hawks shooting first and asking questions later. That wasn't all of it, at any rate. Piper might be a bleeding heart wannabe Robin Hood sometimes (added to the ever-discomforting notion that occasionally popped up in Sam's head, the '_You know, he's all right, damn good at what he does, and a good Rogue, but he likes_ guys _for God's sake' _one) but he was not _soft_.

"What're you all doin' here?" he asked quietly, unsure whether shifting the subject away from himself was actually such a good idea, judging by the looks on the others' faces.

Mick appeared next to the couch with scissors and a small bottle of surgical spirit, and Sam knew for certain his current costume had reached the end of its life. _Damn. Another one bites the dust._

Thing was, Mick had this grim expression on his face – his whole face, since he had discarded the goggles and pushed back the cowl, short black hair sticking up – that Sam had never seen him with before. Not even when both of them had gotten on the bad side of Jack Monteleone that one time – spectacular mistake – with only _Trickster_ around to patch them up.

Maybe this was more worrying than the rest.

"The Thanagarians have been rounding up everyone in a costume these past couple of days. Male and female, human or otherwise, heroes and villains, indiscriminately."

Sam tried to pay extra attention to what Mick was saying, because it beat by far paying attention to the smell – and later distinctive burn – of disinfectant. Tried, because it turned out he had lost quite a bit of blood after all and that made it difficult to completely focus on something. _Damn hawks_.

"What? Why?"

"Word on the street is that the Justice League escaped a few hours ago, and they might know something big," said Len, handing Mick a hefty pile of sterile gauze and Sam an ice pack that he gratefully put on his other side, which he was willing to bet was every existing shade of black and blue now. "Guess they figured they were better off safe than sorry putting away every guy in a suit, super-powered or not, no matter which side he's on." His expression darkened, suddenly alarmingly chilling. "God-damned hawks kicked down our front door at three in the morning."

"I heard they got Firefly, Copperhead and possibly Livewire just yesterday," Hartley said quietly, absently playing with his flute. "Rumour has it that the Shade gave them the slip, though."

Sam smirked, mostly to hide a wince. "Heh. Gotta get up early in the morning to get the drop on old Dickie Swift. The guy's sharp."

"Try not go to sleep at all," Mick corrected with the ghost of a thin, satisfied smile. "They were pissed enough at the business with that Green Arrow guy in Star City, but they're _livid_ now. Figured they'd gotten us all quaking in our boots or something."

"I hate boots," muttered the Trickster in the ensuing silence, earning three completely nonplussed stares and one intrigued look from Piper. He looked down at that, shuffled a bit and kept playing with his yo-yo. Sam decided to leave the out-of-the-blue remark aside – although this one was weird, even coming from James Jesse – and looked up at Len.

"Where's the missus, then?" he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

"Blue Mills. She's staying there till the heat goes down."

"On her own?"

"Gave her one of my cold guns. She's not much of a good shot, but after last night she's in one hell of a mood. If those Thanagarians try anything funny …" A little pride showed – barely, but it did – in his slight smug grin. "I almost pity the poor bastards who do."

Something popped in Mick's back when he stood up and stretched. "There ya go, Sam – all patched up and ready to go. Well, patched up, at any rate."

Sam hated to, but he had to agree. The pain was less sharp than it had been when he'd come limping in Harry's, but he felt as though he had gone nine rounds with Gorilla Grodd. It was incredibly frustrating, because he really itched to get back at those damn hawks a hundred times over, if only because they'd smashed his mirror gun and made him run for his very life. Not to mention the jabs.

'_Peculiar costume' … I'll give you 'peculiar', you dirty son of a –_

"So, what exactly did you plan to do and when were you gonna let me in on it?" he asked the four of them, trying to shift to a less uncomfortable position and failing. Len drew up a three-legged stool and handed a couple of beers around.

"Tomorrow morning, actually. No, not you, Sam – not till you're sure you don't have anything nasty going on with your head. Anyway, it's not so easy getting past them at night, but for people who bothered to look up our names –"

"Not all of us are in the phone book, Len," Hartley pointed out with just that little hint of irony that meant he was not really serious. Len threw him a half-hearted dirty glare, then went on as if there had been no interruptions.

"– It's amazing how they don't actually _look_ behind the masks and the goggles and whatnot. Found you can get off pretty easy with forged papers as long as they look official. What were _your_ plans for tomorrow?"

"I never make plans that far ahead," said Sam matter-of-factly. "Especially when there's alien invaders involved." He paused, wanting to ask the question but already not liking the answer. "What do you think they do with people they catch? I mean … They wouldn't … ?"

Len opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by an unexpectedly grim voice.

"They will."

Once again four heads turned to the Trickster, who was staring ahead with a strange mix of vague fear and anger on his face, plus something that Sam couldn't decipher, and that made him frown.

"When they don't know what to do with us. When their prisons are full. When they get tired of running after us." He gave a slight shiver. "You'll hear boots, and it'll mean they're coming for ya. My dad was shipped away to America 'cause the Nazis hated his mum and killed her and my grandparents when he was a little kid. Told me about the sound of boots and what it meant back then. And now … different people. Same boots."

The silence that followed Trickster's low, broken speech was heavy, and as much as Sam disliked to admit it, unnerving. Except for a natural tendency to get sentimental and reminiscing when he had had a pint or ten too many, Sam wasn't really one for disclosing personal stuff. He must not come off as the greatest confidant, either, because aside from work-related stories and a few late night conversations in front of Harry's best whiskey, the others hadn't told him much about themselves. Private, family stuff generally wasn't something you just up and shared with everybody just like that anyway.

Of course, there always were exceptions to a rule.

But apart from a one-time casual mention that his birth name was actually Giovanni Giuseppe and that he'd been an aerialist as a kid, Trickster had never told Sam anything remotely personal about himself.

Or maybe he had, and Sam just hadn't registered.

Guilt crept in, fuelled by the unpleasantly faraway look on James' face. The guy usually had an incredible range of expressions, from ecstatic glee to gloomy pout, but this … this was different.

Hartley silently stepped away from the wall he'd been leaning against and went to sit on the beer casks beside Trickster. He didn't say a word or offer any gesture of comfort – he didn't even _look_ at the guy, _per se_ – but the distant stare began to fade into something more Trickster-like.

"Not gonna happen, James," said Len, and it was a mark of how uncharacteristically quiet his voice sounded that nobody gave a start. There was something rough in it too, like sandpaper, and Sam couldn't figure whether it was a remnant of anger, the Nobody-Messes-With-The-Team protective captain thing that occasionally reared its head, or something else entirely. "No way we're letting _that_ happen. No way."

"But we are!" Hartley snapped. "We have. They were distinguished guests, remember? They're supposed to protect us from some other alien threat – that was their excuse for the mass landing last week, anyway – they were _right there_ and we still never saw them coming. We just _watched_."

Sam saw Len distinctively shift gears to captain mode. He didn't even need to put on the visor.

"Then I'd say we're done watching."

Trickster looked up from the ground in hopeful interest. Mick narrowed his eyes. Hartley's expression remained neutral, expectation barely showing.

Sam propped himself up on an elbow, the other hand still clamping the now tepid icepack to his bruised side, and listened hard.

Len carried on, his low, level voice belying the hard and determined look in his eyes. "They're here – maybe to stay, maybe not. But I'm not waiting for so-called heroes to wake up and do their damn job. Not while the bastards lay down the law here, make people just disappear, decide who's gonna live or die, and take on one of us seven to one. We don't take that kinda crap around here, and from now on, they're gonna _know_ it.

"Yeah, the Justice League will probably kick their collective asses back to their home planet at some point, and they'll leave with their tails between their legs. But till they do …" He paused, his eyes hardening. "We give 'em hell."

His words hung in the air for a few seconds while everyone in the room turned them over in his head. They smacked of a particularly satisfying taste of revenge for Sam, who grinned widely despite the pain and the lack of beer to make up for it.

"Well said. I'm in."

"Now you're talking," Mick deadpanned, crossing his arms and looking as supremely satisfied as his tight little smirk let on.

Trickster had an odd expression, a sort of fierce, cheerful determination. "Gonna need a bigger rubber chicken."

"That means yes, and count me in too," Piper translated, with something in his eyes that suggested the principles he usually hung on to so stubbornly – the reluctance to hurt people, or mess with their brains with his flute – might not _quite_ apply in this case. This was just as promising as it was ominous. For all that Piper was … well, Piper, Sam knew how dangerous and efficient the kid could be if he put his mind to it.

Like any Rogue when pushed into a corner, in fact.

They discussed guerilla warfare tactics and plans well into the night, and Sam eventually drifted to sleep, exhaustion finally winning the upper hand, one tenuous certainty keeping his little grim buoy of optimism afloat.

They were _not_ heroes – the word was practically an insult. Stupid, heroic grand last stands were _not_ allowed, since everybody – well, they, anyway – knew it was damn difficult to fight when you're dead.

But they would fight. Hell, yeah.

And hopefully, said a weak but stubborn little voice at the back of Sam's head just before he blacked out, they would all stay alive and see the world _not_ end.

* * *

This one was hard to wrap up, but Len"s little "give 'em hell" moment just popped up and made itself so obvious that I couldn't ignore it :D  
Now, I like to bring up references to musics and musicians that I feel fit the mood for the scene, but Woody Guthrie also had the considerable advantage of having the awesomest guitar customising ever – a label that said "This machine kills fascists." Given the context, I couldn't possibly resist :o)

Sam generally calling Len and Mick by their first names and Hartley and especially James by their code names I think comes from the fact that the first three are from more or less the same generation. Also, possibly, because he finds it hard to view James as anything but the Trickster.

Speaking of Trickster … It's established that his parents were Italian, and I took it to mean they were immigrants. From this point to imagining his dad managed to get away from Italy as a little child after the Germans invaded the surrendered country in 1943 (because James' grandmother was Jewish, or possibly an anti-Nazi activist) … the step was too small for me not to take it. What do you think? Over the top? Fits/doesn't fit? Your call :o\

Hope you liked! :o)

Next up: _The Trickster is sitting on the top of a building, thinking of trying out his air-walker shoes for the first time, and the Flash stops by for a chat._


	6. Walking On The Moon

Author's note:man, but was this chapter long overdue. Sorry for the delay, folks, if people are still reading this :D (Real Life interfered something nasty, and it's been a while since I wrote something consistent... Anyway.)

So, here is what in retrospect is perhaps my favourite (or one of, anyway) chapter - because I got to use Wally (who is my personal favourite in JL(U), big surprise there :P) and the Trickster, whose DCAU incarnation is one awesome puppy of sweetness and cute from Cloud Cuckooland. You decide if I got his voice down :o)

_Disclaimer: I wish I owned Trickster's Jew harp. And his yo-yo (the one that doesn't explode). But that's it :o]_

* * *

**Everybody Comes To Harry's**

WALKING ON THE MOON

It was a beautiful, sunny day in Central City, Missouri. A warm spring wind was blowing through the streets, clouds were drifting lazily in the sky looking like cotton shreds, and James Jesse was sitting on the top of the Schwartz Mall Tower, swinging his legs over the edge and whistling softly.

_Now Jesse was a man, a friend to the poor  
He'd never rob a mother or a child  
There never was a man with the law in his hand  
That could take Jesse James when alive …_

Fun little song. It had been running constantly in his head for the past five minutes. James wished he had a Jew's harp – it just seemed like the perfect moment in a perfect day to play it.

Instead he idly played with his yo-yo – his favourite one, the one that didn't explode – and passed in review every step of the way, from the moment he'd had the idea for the shoes up to now. It was a long way, and lots of steps, so he'd been sitting there for some time now, looking up at the bright blue sky and grinning at the clouds.

It didn't help that he often got distracted by a passing thought or a pigeon who flew by a little too close to him for comfort. Oh sure, he _could_ scare them off if he used stuff from his bag of tricks, but he hadn't come all the way up to here to shoot pepper powder pellets at birds. It wasn't something the Trickster did, anyway.

Being the Trickster wasn't something James Jesse did – it was something he _was_.

James had been called many names since he was a kid. He'd answered to 'Giovanni Giuseppe' – the name his parents gave him – he had _not_ answered to those who'd called him 'wop', or 'carnie' – in the end, he had twisted his birth name into something that looked good on posters. Advertisement and _Wanted_ ones.

'James Jesse' looked good on both. It was a good, strong name, and one he'd made for himself at that.

But the Trickster wasn't just a name. It meant something. It meant he had certain obligations, like annoying the heck out of the Flash, razzle-dazzling the rest out of the Central City Police, and maybe keeping the balance of the universe between absolute order and absolute chaos too.

Okay, he wasn't certain about that last part, though, but the first two kept him so busy and were so darn _fun_ anyway that it didn't matter much.

_It was on a Saturday night and the moon was shining bright  
They robbed the Glendale train …  
_

He'd been working on those shoes for months – scratch that, _years_.

They had to work.

_And people they did say o'er many miles away …_

"Hey, James! Thought that was you up there. Whatcha doin'?"

The voice was cheerful and friendly enough, with just that little bit of wariness that told a good listener the guy knew who he was dealing with. James turned his head and greeted the Flash with a grin.

"Enjoying a day off. It's a really beautiful day, so I'm making it my day off – you know, to relax and chill and stuff. Well, 'chill' is more Len's kinda thing, but … you know what I mean."

Flash's body language matched his voice perfectly as he stood alongside James, admiring the view, but keeping a careful eye on him all the same.

"Yeah. I gotta say, it looks even more beautiful from here. 'That why you're sitting on the edge of one of the tallest buildings in Central?"

There was the tiniest hint of a tension in his voice that made James look up, blinking.

"Just wanted to work on experimental stuff. What did you think I was here for?"

Not-quite-blank lenses met his gaze, and Flash made a funny sort of face.

"I, uh … Well, I sorta heard you weren't feeling that great lately, and … I guess I just …" He made a show of scratching the back of his neck and gave a sheepish smile. "Okay. I wanted to check on you. Make sure you didn't … do something you'd regret."

James raised an eyebrow under his mask, rather taken aback. This was … unexpected, albeit rather logical when you knew the guy for as long as he did.

"'Check on me'? What the heck for?"

Flash squirmed a bit, looking uncomfortable, and James had to grin again at that. Watching someone squirm at super-speed was a whole lot of fun.

"Told ya, heard you weren't – really well these days. So when I saw you sitting there on that really really high rooftop, I … got a little nervous, yeah." He stopped squirming and sat down next to James. "Anyway. Got any dastardly deed planned for today, Trickster?"

James put his yo-yo back into a pocket in his cloak and frowned at the too-innocent blue eyes he could make out behind the lenses.

"You know, that hurt. What, I can't have a day off like a regular guy?"

"You're not exactly a regular guy, James."

"Okay, then. I can't have a day off like a regular super-villain?"

The Flash grinned and shook his head, not answering the rhetorical question. But something he'd said earlier caught up with James. "And, uh, whaddaya mean, you 'heard'? Heard what from who?"

Cue more super-speed squirming. Not for the first time, James reflected that the guy would be interesting to play poker against. Even half-covered as it was, his face was an open book.

Too bad James didn't have a clue how to play poker, really.

"Well – you haven't been hanging out with the Rogues much these days, have you?"

James gave an emphatic shrug. "Nah, not much. There's this project I've been working on that's takin' a lot of time. Why?"

"Piper was … he worries a bit about you."

"Piper's _always_ worried."

"Not without reason."

That actually was a pretty good point, but darn it if James was going to concede it. Besides, this begged for another question.

"Wait. You went and _talked_ to him?"

James decided that Flash had the most infuriating grin in the known universe. Which was really annoying, seeing that _he_ was supposed to have reached that particular record. Infuriating people was his _life goal_, darnit.

"Ran into him the other day outside that pub you guys hang around in –"

"That's gotta hurt."

"_Not _what I meant."

_Hah! One-upped him._

"… And he said – well, it wasn't so much what he actually _said_ than how he said it. Told me you had these mood swings – like, one second you're bouncing all over the place and the next you look like your puppy's been brutally murdered and sent to you piece by piece."

James screwed up his face, wincing. "Hel-_lo_ to the imagery. Very nice, Flash."

"Sorry. Piper's idea, my words." Flash glanced up at the sky, then back at James, then at his feet dangling over the very, _very_ high drop, then at the buildings and the clouds in front of him – all of this so fast it was hard to keep track. "And it's … you know … not just Piper."

James almost dropped the yo-yo he had picked back up from his pocket to keep his hands busy. "Oh?"

"Yeah."

"So who else didja 'run into', then?"

Oh man, the guy needed to stop squirming. You can only have fun with it for so long, after all.

"Well," Flash drawled, "I didn't exactly _run_ into 'em so much as … handed them to the cops the other day."

"That 'other day' of yours sure sounds busy."

"_James_ … Anyway, Heatwave _might_ have mentioned something … Mirror Master, too …"

James goggled at Flash. He wouldn't have been surprised if his eyes just popped out of his mask, Tex Avery-style.

"Mick and Sam asked after me? They're _concerned_?"

"You'd be surprised. I mean, even Captain Cold dropped a word when the cops weren't listening."

"_What?_"

"Yeah. Weird, huh?"

And Flash looked serious. That was probably the most unsettling part. The Flash always made a point of never being really serious. Oh, he probably worked on the banter and the one-liners as much as the Trickster did, but that was what made going against him so entertaining. When people asked him why on earth he stayed in Central City when the Flash clearly had the upper hand in every mischief he planned, James pointed out that the jokes and the repartee would be lost on folks like the Big Boy Scout in Metropolis or Big Old Bad Gloom 'n Doom in Gotham. Being the Trickster in Central City was all about fun, and Flash delivered that in spades.

The other guys acted like they didn't get that, as though they really were in it just for the money and not for the fun, but James knew better. You didn't see the Central City Rogues pulling a heist in LA or Denver or Phoenix – they stayed, too. And it wasn't for the waters.

Now, if only they'd admit to it … Maybe it wouldn't make James feel so much like the wacky outsider all the time. He was an integral part of the Rogues, darnit, and he'd been for some time now! _And_ he'd been wearing the stripped pants and the bright colours and the grin way before the – James shuddered – _Joker_ – had made the whole thing all fashionable, after all.

So, yeah, it did make him feel a bit fuzzy and warm in the region of the stomach that the guys had actually taken the trouble to drop a word to the Flash, of all people, in concern over him. Even if that was _totally_ unnecessary.

He was fine. And he was _not_ crazy.

… And he realised just now that he'd kept silent for what may seem like an uncanny long period to someone like the Flash. Who glanced at him from the corner of his eye.

"So … wanna thumb-wrestle?"

"… ?"

"I won't use super-speed, promise."

"… Sure, okay."

James put away his yo-yo again and they locked hands.

The absurdity of the situation never occurred to him once.

"What were you working on that took so much time, anyway, James?"

"Air-walker shoes. You know, to walk on air. Wild, huh?"

"Yup, sounds so. How'd you get the idea?"

"Well, you know my folks were aerialists, right?"

"Right. Hah – got your thumb."

"Revenge game?"

"You're on. So – aerialists."

They locked hands again, James still talking while paying extra attention this time. "So, yeah. I remember getting really scared of heights as a kid, so I thought up some kinda device that'd help me get … not scared. Got over that fear a while ago, but the shoe idea stayed." He grinned as he pinned Flash's red-clad thumb under his. "Heh. Decider?"

"Okay. So it's like a hobby? Every now and then, you just get them out and work on 'em?"

"Nah. Finished them last week." Flash seemed to raise an eyebrow under his cowl, and James' grin grew wider as he broke the thumb wrestling and used his hands to emphasize his point. "I tested them yesterday at my place, and they worked. But I haven't tested them over a good scary height yet."

"'That why you're here?"

This simple question left James oddly deflated after the soaring excitement of finding the shoes actually worked that he had been carrying with him since the day before.

"Yeah, I, uh … Guess I was working up the guts to take a leap of faith, as it were."

It _was_ a beautiful day, after all, and crashing against the pavement with some big wet and pink noise some seventy stores below would really ruin it. That would be a shame.

The Flash peeked at the shoes he was wearing.

"Y'know, I don't know anything about flying gadgets, but they look like the normal kind to me."

"That's the whole point! That way, next time I rob a train or a jewellery store or something, you won't be able to follow me, 'cause I'll be running on air with my normal-looking shoes and I'll be laughing at ya!"

"Yeah, _that_ sounds great," Flash deadpanned. Then he cut the snark and appeared thoughtful. "You know what? I think you should try. If they don't work, I promise I'll be down there to catch you before you –"

"– Go splat?"

"Exactly."

James tapped his index against his chin thoughtfully, assessing the guy's sincerity. But that was something about the Flash that you quickly came to realise if you worked with – or against – him: he was fairly straightforward. He didn't do things with reservations or ulterior motives – he just did it. If he said he would catch you, unless something dire happened to him, he _would_.

It's a funny feeling when you're a villain, realising you could depend on a hero.

Even if it _was_ your day off.

James made up his mind.

"Okay, then, let's do that." He stood up, his heart beating in his chest louder and faster than he would have liked it, and looked for the Flash's eyes behind the lenses. "You probably won't need to, but you sure you can be down there and catch me if …?"

The guy grinned his cheerful, warm grin. "In a flash."

The hammering in James' chest subsided a tiny bit. "Okay." He took a deep breath, opened his eyes wide, and put his left foot forward.

"_A-wop-bop-a-loo-bop a-lop-ban-boom_ …"

He put his foot down on nothing.

And realised the very millisecond he felt for the button he had to press in order to activate the compressed-air system _that those were the wrong shoes and how could he have mixed those up and oh my God I am going to _die.

In the space of a second, he opened his mouth wide to scream, the wind filled it and closed his throat, and out of an old, now futile habit his whole body went limp in anticipation of the impact. It lasted one second and it lasted an eternity.

And then he was Dorothy in the _Wizard of Oz_. Or rather, her house.

Somewhere in his terror-crazed brain, a little voice tilted its (metaphorical) head to the side and asked where the tornado came from.

His feet gently touched the ground. His knees buckled, and he would have fallen –

– _falling and falling and falling and gone _splat –

– face first on the pavement if a pair of arms hadn't caught him and kept him upright.

"James? James, you okay? Can you hear me?"

James still had his eyes wide open, but only now was he starting to get image to match sound. And the sound was bad, like his parents' old radio on the breadbox in the trailer.

"Oh my G – wha' the – oh my – oh God – oh God – oh _God_ – "

The wrong shoes. He had put on the _wrong shoes_. How could that happen? He had been _so_ sure he had the right shoes on earlier!

If the Flash hadn't stopped to chat … Oh boy, if he'd tried the shoes just _five minutes_ earlier … He shuddered violently, still babbling, his head spinning.

"James, look at me – I mean it, look at me. You still in there, man?"

"Yeah," James eventually replied, gradually coming down to Earth – _God there was something profoundly wrong with that metaphor_ – and gazing up into a worried face and a pair of wide blue eyes. "Yeah, I'm … Yeah. Uh … wrong shoes. Sorry."

Flash stared at him for thirty-two whole seconds – James had the time to register his heart thumping painfully and possibly cracking a rib or two, and the cold sweat running all over him – and finally gave a weak chuckle.

"You – you got the _shoes_ wrong?"

"A–apparently I did."

They both fell silent, and James began noticing the city sounds starting again, as though from an old scratched vinyl record. The smells of car exhaust, fresh tar and the almost unnoticeable sharp hint of spring came through, too.

Copper in his mouth. He had bitten slightly on his tongue. That started to hurt a bit as well.

Flash was still supporting him, with one arm thrown over his shoulder.

"Hey … aren't we near that place? You know, the pub?"

James raised a head that weighed five tons and inspected their surroundings.

"Yeah, I'd say we are. Why, wanted a drink?"

"I think we both do, don't you?"

James could only agree, which was probably why the two of them sat a few minutes later at the counter in front of an astonished Harry, the only remaining person in the pub due to a lot of patrons running out in a panic when the Flash walked in. Nevertheless, Harry stoically poured the two drinks – a Shirley Temple and a Coke – and edged away discreetly.

James gulped down gloomily some of his grenadine-lemonade, staring down at the counter and watching his hands fail to stop shaking.

"Can't believe I put on the wrong shoes."

Flash kept silent, playing with the lemon slice in his Coke.

"You know the worst part? I totally remember puttin' them on when I left my place. It's like – it's there in my _brain_." He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, to no avail. "I think … I think there's something wrong with it."

Flash still said nothing, but kept his eyes on James. He wasn't blinking behind those lenses.

"With my brain, I mean. Or my mind. Or – well, me. Generally."

James gave his drink a stir, and the swirling pink and yellow looked for a second like his own tangled mop of hair when he looked in the mirror in the morning.

"That's what the fellas meant, right? Why they're worried?"

The lump in his throat just would _not_ budge.

"But I'm not _crazy_! I know I – I'm not! I'm not like … not like _him_ …"

The thought felt ice cold and white hot at the same time, and although the feeling did have not unpleasant associations – a certain rough, reluctantly friendly association – it went through him like a sudden bad fever, leaving him shuddering slightly. He screwed up his eyes against the image.

"You know people keep getting confused? After all this time? They say, 'Oh yeah, that guy, Gotham's got one just like that' or they … sometimes people take me for him, you know? 'I thought that nutjob was Batman's lookout, what's he doing here in Central – kill and torture some other people?' But …"

His eyes were stinging, and he knew the look he was giving Flash was pleading and desperate, but right now he couldn't care less.

"I don't _wanna_ be the Joker, Flash! I don't want to be insane and kill and maim and torture and _laugh_ –"

"James," Flash cut him quietly with a hand on his arm, "you're not. Yes, you need help, and I swear you're getting it the second you ask – but just because you're not well doesn't mean you're becoming a psychopath. Remember, when you wanted to steal that big blue diamond at the museum, and you set those pepper and itching powder bombs to distract everyone?"

James nodded bleakly. The memory was fun, but he just couldn't bring himself to smile.

"Okay, those people were really annoyed, and – well, yeah, in the end you didn't go very far with that diamond – but nobody was really hurt. Now, the Joker? He would've used his usual gas that disfigures people and probably would have killed them afterwards just for the hell of it."

The thought made James shiver again, and he felt Flash's hand on his arm give a slight squeeze.

"James, I _know_ you … You've been a super-villain –"

"A Rogue," James corrected in a low voice, out of habit. Flash smiled a little bit.

"Sorry – a Rogue – for a long time, and if there's something I know about you for sure –"

"I really like blue and yellow stripes?"

The smile widened, and the Trickster in James cheered. Quietly, from a bit of a distance.

"– It's that you do _not_ kill. You don't hurt innocent people. You're a good g – well, okay, maybe not a 'good guy', but you're a not a bad man. I'd rather have _you_ here than any wacky villain I come up against with the League. Any day."

James' eyes didn't sting anymore, but that was only because they were brimming with tears that threatened to fall any minute, and hadn't already done so just because he had been holding on so tightly till now.

Flash didn't notice. Or possibly pretended to, James wasn't sure. He didn't make any comment, and let him finish his drink in his own time.

Then they talked some more, about doctors and hospitals and medicines. About a possible appointment James _could_ make tomorrow. Promises were made about possible hospital visits – barring grounding injuries or apocalypses to prevent – and this touched James a great deal, because when they'd talked about hospitals, even without saying a single word about it, Flash had sounded and looked like he hated setting foot in those places. But he'd promised, and James knew he would make good on that promise if needed be.

As he left Harry's – knowing that Flash was probably still keeping an eye on him, and while that thought should have made him feel antsy and ill-at-ease, deep down he was oddly glad of that – James realised he had another song running in his head.

_Some may say  
I'm wishing my days away no way  
And if it's the price I pay, some say  
Tomorrow's another day, you'll stay  
I may as well play…_

And James wondered if he could pop over Piper's to borrow the record tomorrow after his appointment with the doc.

* * *

I always wondered how James came to realise there's something wrong with him - the way I see it, it's like a sort of depression, the one you have to treat medically but once you do, you can be okay - and accepts it. Halfway through writing this, I thought, "Hey - this guy dresses in bright colours, makes it a point of honour to come up with harmless-looking dangerous gadgets (acid snot gun and whatnot) ... He's afraid that, if he's crazy, then he becomes the Joker." Part of this wild idea came from Mark Hamill's performance in Flash and Substance AND his being the Joker in the DCAU for something like ten years (funnily enough, up until a year ago or so I had no idea that Hamill was the _Joker_ :D) The other part came from a conversation with some friends of mine, where I attempted to explain the Trickster to them, and came up pathetically short (it didn't help that his "Nobody gets me" line kept running through my head :D) and almost ended up saying, "Like the Joker, but without the crazy murderous rampage." I should have started with the general, Bugs Bunny concept of the trickster :o)

Next up: Piper's chapter. But I've only got two pages down, so no sneak peek yet :o/


End file.
